Like Toy Soldiers
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Completely AU, FBI 'verse – Hurt Sam, Hurt Dean – with John, Mary, Bobby...and many others – When the gunfire stops, Dean's shirt and both his hands are covered in blood, but he's alive. Across the way, Sam lies unmoving on the floor.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Completely AU, FBI 'verse – Hurt Sam, Hurt Dean – with John, Mary, Bobby...and many others – When the gunfire stops and the smoke has cleared, John can finally see his oldest. Dean's shirt and both his hands are covered in blood, but John can tell he's alive. Across the way, the news is not as good, as Sam lies unmoving on the floor.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: usual language; includes character names from all seasons but no other major spoilers beyond seasons one and two; basic "feel" for the overall SPN storyline (with tweaks, of course)

**A/N**: Told from different points of view; if the character did not have a known last name, I used the actor's – The boys are always claiming to be FBI agents in order to investigate cases of the supernatural. But what if the Winchesters _really were_ FBI agents? What if _that_ was the family business from which Sam strayed? And what if John and Mary and most other hunters were still alive; all working together to capture Azazel before the serial killer strikes again? What if all those variables had changed, but Winchester luck stayed the same?

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><p><em>Step by step, heart to heart, left right left; we all fall down, like toy soldiers. ~ Eminem (...or Martika)<em>

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><p><em><strong>BOBBY SINGER<strong>_

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><p>I need a break.<p>

Maybe pack it in, pack it up, and haul ass to the nearest tropical island in time for New Year's.

Toes in the sand, an umbrella drink, Karen beside me wearing next to nothing; all sounds pretty damn good to me as I sit at the far end of a ridiculously long table at 1:06 on Christmas Eve afternoon, listening to grown men bicker like two-year olds.

"We ran the heuristic algorithm three times, John."

My gaze shifts to Miles Asher as he speaks, remembering the first time I saw him and his mullet and his sleeveless dress shirts with the sloppily tied ties. He had always looked more like a scrawny Lynyrd Skynyrd groupie going to a wedding than a MIT-educated computer guru going to work; but that was just Ash.

When he had been hired by the Bureau two years ago, I had tried to enforce the dress code and all the other "rules" we have. But it didn't take long to figure out Ash marched to his own drummer – a drummer who probably played the solo in Zeppelin's "Moby Dick" on a constant loop – and after his first week, I had decided I liked that.

Still do.

Ash holds up his chart as though the lines and numbers mean anything to anybody except him. "_Three times_," he says again, talking about that algorithm.

"And guess what?" Frank Devereaux asks in that obnoxiously smartass way of his; his whiny voice grating on my already frazzled nerves as he stands beside Ash at the front of the conference room.

Frank's squinty little eyes dart behind his horn-rimmed glasses between me and John Winchester, like he literally expects us to guess.

And I swear if Frank's conspiracy theory crap had not been so dangerously close to the truth all those years ago, his crazy ass would never have been hired by the Bureau. But the old adage of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer seemed like a good idea at the time, and now – almost 20 years later – I'm told by the Director it still is.

But as I stare at Frank, who is still staring at us, I'm not so sure.

Frank shakes his head as people do when they think they're dealing with dumbasses – half pity, half disgust – and answers his own question.

"You've got a better chance of Jesus showing up at that church tonight than this Azazel guy," Frank tells John, and I can see the muscles twitch in Winchester's clenched jaw.

Because for John, Azazel is his white whale; is the one that got away. The one that was researched and tracked for years; the one that John had neglected his family for in hopes of getting a big break in the case; the one that John had literally killed for – having shot and killed Azazel's daughter, Meg, in self-defense during a raid a few years ago.

And then when John had finally caught and arrested Azazel last year, when it seemed all the sacrifice had been worth it – Azazel had walked free.

"The Slash and Burn Killer" as Azazel was known, due to his penchant for slashing his victims' throats and abdomens before setting them – and the building they were in – on fire, had been released from federal prison six months ago following a mistrial; a mistrial that had resulted from a medical expert's misleading testimony regarding blood evidence, not to mention the intentional errors of the Assistant District Attorney at the time.

"Maybe your computer crap is wrong," John counters Frank's argument, his tone too measured to be natural; his anger barely contained.

"And maybe Lee Harvey Oswald really shot Kennedy," Frank snaps, rolling his eyes at what he perceives as an absurdity; pulling up his already-too-high-waisted pants over his gut before he plops down in his seat.

Ash continues to stand and frowns. "Dude, the pattern recognition software is never wrong," he defends, his tone and expression implying John just insulted his mother instead of his computer. "I know it sucks, but if it doesn't show Azazel on the grid, then he's not on the grid. And there's none of the usual signs that he's in town or even close to this town."

"He _called_ me," John growls, as though that trumps everything else.

And maybe it does.

We have no reason to think – and more importantly, no evidence to suggest – that Azazel will strike tonight. No one has heard from him or seen him since he walked out of jail and out of our lives back in June.

But if it _really was_ Azazel who had called John last night; if it really was the Slash and Burn Killer calling his old archenemy to gloat over his plan to start another killing spree tonight on Christmas Eve at a church – just like he had originally started ten years ago – then I'm wondering why the hell we're all sitting around a conference table and not hauling ass to said church in preparation for a stakeout to stop the sick bastard.

But protocol is protocol – and the Bureau is a stickler for protocol – so, here we sit.

Ash shrugs. "Hey. Whatever, man," he responds to John's insistence about the call and closes his laptop before crossing to the door. "I just run the data."

"And the data says he ain't comin'," Frank taunts from across the table.

John stares at him.

Ash glances at me, and I nod, giving him permission to leave and wishing I could do the same – because this is about to get ugly.

"He fucking _called me_," John tells us again – in case we missed it the first 30 times – and then glares at Frank, daring him to make another argument against that fact.

Frank does.

Of course.

"We traced that number you gave us," Frank reports, his chair groaning as he leans back and places his clasped hands on his fat belly; his posture and tone entirely too relaxed in the face of a pissed John Winchester. "Know what we found, Secret Agent Man?"

John's jaw clenches impossibly tighter, and I think if he throws a punch at Frank, I'm not going to stop him.

"Nothing," Frank continues, clearly pleased with himself. "According to our databases, that phone number doesn't even exist."

John shakes his head. "That's not possible."

Frank shrugs, uprighting his chair. "Anything's possible, J.W. I mean..." He chuckles. "When you were arresting Azazel, did you think your son would be one to let the sick bastard go?"

It's a low-blow, even for an asshat like Frank, and I feel my earlier annoyance instantly morph into anger.

Because it wasn't like that; Sam had not just "let" Azazel go.

In fact, even though Sam was the District Attorney, he had not even been directly involved with the case. Since his dad – John – had been the arresting agent, Sam had bowed out due to the potential conflict of interest.

As was his nature, Sam had done the right thing – or what he had thought was the right thing – and had deferred the case to the Assistant District Attorney, Ruby Cortese.

But unbeknownst to Sam – or to anybody else at the time – Ruby was a mole, manipulating testimonies and destroying evidence, which resulted in the mistrial and Azazel walking free.

Sam had tried his damnedest to salvage the case, but it had been too little, too late.

Ruby and that medical examiner guy – Tyson Brady – had both been tried and convicted of numerous charges and were currently serving their sentences in federal prison; Azazel had been released back into the world; and Sam had been left to bear the weight of all that had gone wrong.

I shake my head.

It was messy and complicated and not the kid's fault – though I know Sam still blames himself, and John still blames Sam for what happened as well, even now...six months later.

The mistrial had been the straw that had broken the proverbial camel's back, which I guess wasn't hard to do considering that camel had been carrying a lot of baggage for a lot of years; father and son's relationship having been rocky since Sam's adolescence.

Even still, John doesn't tolerate anyone talking shit about his family – especially a dickhead like Frank Devereaux.

Rage flashes in John's eyes, and I see his hand curl into a fist half-a-second before he stands; his chair scraping against the floor and smacking into the wall behind.

And I find myself on alert, sitting on the edge of my seat; silently urging John to cold-cock the smug sonuvabitch.

But before anything can happen, Mary Campbell Winchester appears in the doorway; gray skirt and white blouse fitted in all the right places; high heels making her already long legs look longer; blonde hair swept up in a loose bun; black-rimmed glasses sitting primly on the bridge of her nose.

I'm happily married, but John Winchester is one lucky, _lucky_ man.

Just sayin'.

"Am I interrupting something?" Mary asks innocently; her words polite, but her tone knowing and her expression the same as if she had just told Frank to fuck off.

And Frank knows it, too.

"I was just – "

"Making an ass of yourself like usual, I'm sure," Mary smoothly finishes for him as she shifts the bundle of folders in her arms to rest on her hip – as I've seen her do with her babies in years past – and continues to stand in the doorway and stare at Frank.

And I remember having also witnessed this routine numerous times before – this composed intensity that always makes the other person blink first; only it was not with Mary.

Samuel Campbell had been one of the best agents the FBI had ever seen, and if he had lived long enough – had not been shot and killed during a warehouse raid about ten years ago – he would have been damn proud to see his daughter follow in his footsteps; to see his only child, his Mary, kick ass and take names on a daily basis...even though she never threw a punch.

Frank squirms in his chair, clearly uncomfortable, and looks everywhere except at Mary. He glances at me, still seated at the far end of the table, and then at John, still standing across from him.

"Well..." Frank sighs, as people often do before transitioning. "Think I'll head back downstairs," he comments as he stands and crosses to the door.

Mary smiles sweetly as he squeezes by her to exit the conference room. "Nice to see you again, Frank," she calls after him and watches as he disappears down the hall.

There's a beat of silence before she turns back to look at me and John and rolls her eyes.

"I had that handled," John tells her, talking about the situation with Frank and his smart mouth.

"I know," Mary agrees easily and smiles at her husband.

A silent conversation passes between them – typical of all the Winchesters – and John smiles back at her, shaking his head fondly as he slides his chair away from the wall and sits back down diagonal from me.

Mary's smile widens; because she knows she just successfully defused an explosive situation and knows that John appreciates it, even if he'll never admit it.

And I think to myself – not for the first time – that Mary should have been a negotiator or a member of the bomb squad instead of a profiler.

"Alright, fellas," Mary sighs, crossing to the table and depositing the stack of folders before settling into her seat beside John. "What did I miss?"

And just like that, the mood in the room instantly changes.

Mary glances at me and then at her husband. "John..." she prompts.

John sighs harshly. "Ash says he's not on the grid."

Mary nods, both in understanding and agreement. "He's right," she says simply and doesn't look surprised when John's attention snaps to her.

"What?"

Mary shrugs apologetically. "I know you don't like it. But he's right, John."

"How can you say that?" John demands. "Azazel called me."

"No, _somebody_ called you," Mary corrects. "We were unable to trace the number on your cell phone to a specific person or location."

"It was him, Mary," John insists, and I see the anger returning to his eyes. "After all these years, I know the sound of that fucker's voice, and it was _him_. He told me when and where and all but drew me a fucking map, and all of you want me to sit on my fucking hands and do nothing? Jesus!"

Mary stares at him, completely unfazed by his outburst; it's not like she hasn't experienced it before...on a daily basis.

To say John could be moody would be like saying the ocean could be salty.

"You done?" Mary asks him dryly, shifting in her chair to cross her legs.

John sighs loudly in response.

"No one is saying 'do nothing'," I tell John reasonably; because as Deputy Director of the FBI, it's part of my job to always be the voice of reason...which sucks. I miss the days where I could go off half-cocked, dropping f-bombs and slinging punches just because I was pissed.

"Then what _are_ you saying?" John snaps at me.

"I'm not saying anything yet. We just need to make damn sure our shit is together on this," I remind him and see Mary nod in agreement with me. "I have no doubt that Azazel is the Slash and Burn Killer. And I have no doubt that he is one of the sickest, most evil sonuvabitches we've run up against in all our years with the Bureau. _But_..."

John glares at me because he knows what's coming.

"He wasn't convicted, John. He's a free man just like you and me. So, until he does something to warrant another arrest, you need to stand down." I pause, making sure John is listening to me. "The last thing the Bureau needs is another misstep in this case, which results in this asshole walking free again."

John snorts disgustedly and shakes his head, looking away from me but careful not to look at Mary, either. As though avoiding eye contact will somehow prevent us from knowing exactly what he's thinking.

He's wrong.

"It wasn't his fault," Mary states calmly, but her expression is hard and icy.

Because this – John's bitterness toward his own son – has been going on for months, and Mary is done with it.

D-O-N-E.

Done.

John shrugs. "I didn't say anything."

"No," Mary agrees. "But you were thinking it."

John doesn't deny it; just continues to stare straight ahead.

The silence is thick and awkward as Mary glances at me and then back at her husband.

And I know that if they had not both known me for more than 30 years; if their kids had not grown up calling me Uncle Bobby and my wife Aunt Karen; if I had not been just plain ol' Bobby before I was Deputy Director Singer, the conversation about this touchy subject would have ended right here.

But it doesn't.

"When are you going to let this go?" Mary asks John.

"Let what go?"

Mary stares at him, clearly unimpressed by his act.

John shakes his head, a gesture of frustration. "What? What do you want me to say, Mary? That I forgive Sam, and then we all have a group hug in time for Christmas?"

Mary narrows her eyes. "Don't be a smartass with me, John. And don't be a dick, either. There's nothing to forgive. Sam did nothing wrong. You can't blame him for what happened."

John's eyes widen. "The hell I can't!" he yells. "Sam – "

"Was just doing his job," Mary defends...and she's right.

That's part of the problem.

Sam was doing _his_ job and not _their_ job; not the family business.

When it had come time to choose careers, Sam had chosen "lawyer" over "FBI agent". And while John had insisted it didn't matter; that he didn't resent Sam's decision; that everything was all good because at least Sam was still in the business of putting bad guys away – John's actions had spoken louder than his words.

It was little things at first – John purposefully missing family dinners, saying he had to "work" just so he wouldn't have to see Sam...shit like that.

But earlier this year, Sam had been appointed District Attorney – the youngest person to date to have received that honor – and John had not attended the ceremony or the reception afterwards.

Sam had been gracious and understanding; had excused John's absence with polite words and a wounded smile.

But Mary had been _pissed_, and Dean – Sam's older brother and John's good little soldier, having fallen in line right behind Daddy as an FBI agent – had been livid.

But that incident was not the issue they were discussing now.

"His job?" John repeats. "His job is to win cases, to keep serial killers off the fucking streets instead of just blindly trusting another attorney to do it for him!"

"He couldn't be involved in the case because of _you_, John, and the overall history between Azazel and our family. You know that," Mary reminded sharply. "And as for Ruby, he had no reason to suspect she was a conniving bitch."

"She's right, John," I add, knowing John won't think it's my place to speak on this issue but unable to keep quiet. "I've known the judge, Rufus Turner, since grade school. And he told me he had never seen anything like that girl – even _he_ never suspected her until the last minute – and by then, it was too late. She was good. Her and that Brady guy..."

John snorts disgustedly. "Brady..."

Mary glares, once again reading John's thoughts. "Sam's known him since they were sophomores in college. Hell, Brady was at our house just last Thanksgiving. How was Sam supposed to know Brady was working for the wrong side?" She pauses. "Did _you_ know?"

John doesn't say anything.

"That's what I thought," Mary answers. "And that's why this needs to _stop_, John. If you're pissed because Azazel is free, fine...be pissed. But don't be pissed at Sam, because Sam did nothing wrong."

I nod in agreement, the movement so slight that I doubt either Winchester sees it as they stare at each other.

The silence that fills the conference room is tense and thick; muffled voices and ringing phones filter in through the closed door as reminders that even if their family is falling apart, the world still goes 'round.

That's how life worked.

That's how the job worked.

And that's why John clears his throat and jumps right back into the conversation about the case as though the last ten minutes never happened.

"I called Missouri Mosley," John announces, knowing that will get a reaction from Mary, will distract her from continuing to hound him about the issues between him and Sam.

It works.

Mary frowns. "Why would you do that?"

I'm wondering the same.

John shrugs. "I wanted to know what she thought about the call from Azazel."

Mary rolls her eyes to indicate her opinion of this.

"What?" John asks defensively, and I see another battle on the horizon.

But that's how it's always been with the Winchesters; they're a passionate bunch, that's for sure.

Mary shakes her head. "Missouri's a nice woman. But she answers the phone at a freakin' psychic hotline, John. She thinks whatever you _want _her to think. That's what she gets paid for – to tell you what she thinks you want to hear."

It's John's turn to shake his head. "That's not true," he counters. "There have been plenty of cases where she knew details no one else knew, details that were not released to the media."

And John's right.

I'm still not sure how she pulls it off, even though we've investigated her at least twice. But Missouri has always known far more than she should about our cases. And she's always been more right than wrong with her predictions.

"Fine." Mary sighs, because she can't argue against the truth of John's last statement. "What did she say about the call?"

"She said it was him – "

"Oh, of course she did..." Mary interrupts.

John narrows his eyes.

Mary smiles, amused. "Any other news from the future?"

An unreadable expression passes over John's face, and Mary's smile falters.

"John?"

John glances at his wife; then at me and then back to her. "After I told her about the call, she did a reading...or whatever...and she said she saw blood on the door of a church."

Mary leans forward in her seat, an instant believer at the mention of blood. "Yours?"

John shakes his head. "No. Someone else's. But someone I know."

Mary swallows, staring intently at her husband. "Who?"

And I can see her holding her breath, praying John doesn't call Dean's name. Because Dean is on John's team; and if I decide to let them move on this, if this goes down, Dean will be at that church with John tonight.

And although I know Mary would never wish harm to any member of John's team, the mother in her would rather such a fate fall on anyone except her oldest son.

Mary has never said it aloud, but I know that's one reason why she was glad, was _thankful_ that Sam had not chosen this life – because at least he was safe.

"Who?" Mary repeats, actually grasping John's wrist.

John shakes his head again. "I don't know. _She_ didn't know."

Mary nods her understanding but looks even more concerned.

John covers Mary's hand with his own. "It'll be okay," he assures her, even though I can tell he's also concerned.

He would rather Missouri had told him it _was_ his blood that she saw, than to have to wonder and worry about whose it was; especially when Dean is among the possibilities.

There's a beat of silence.

"Did she say which church?" I ask, beginning to feel anxious myself.

...which is ridiculous.

Nothing has happened yet. No one has been injured; no one is bleeding.

And yet, what if Missouri is right?

John sweeps his thumb over the back of Mary's hand and then looks at me. "Same church as where it all started before...just like Azazel told me last night on the phone."

I nod, needing no further explanation.

Azazel's first killing spree had begun exactly ten years ago during a Christmas Eve service at a church downtown, much like the one he supposedly had planned for tonight. As was the same back then, Jim Murphy – who had been one of the Bureau's chaplains for as long as John and I had been agents – still pastored the church located at the intersection of Blue Earth and Lawrence Streets.

And if I know John – and I do – I know he has already been in touch with Jim about the possibility of yet another threat to his congregation on this, one of the most joyous nights of the year.

"Have you called Jim?" I ask anyway.

John nods, his hand still resting over Mary's as she continues to grasp his wrist. "Yeah. If you give us the green light on this, he's onboard."

I nod in return, having expected that of Jim.

"I assured Jim we wouldn't disrupt the church service. We would just fan out and blend in with the rest of the congregation. Nobody would even know we were there, unless we saw something suspicious or Azazel actually showed."

I nod again at John's plan of action.

It's a good plan. But still...

John stares at me, and I know what he wants to hear.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck. "I don't know, John. I know you think Azazel is coming. And I know you think he called you last night and that Missouri confirmed it. But I need more than your hunch and a psychic's say-so on this, or it's _my _ass." I pause, because that's not 100% true. "It's _all _of our asses on the line here, John."

John scowls his anger and annoyance, and I know I'm not going to like what he says.

"Would you rather dozens of innocent people...innocent _families..._be slaughtered at church on Christmas Eve because you didn't have the balls to do what you knew was right?" John shakes his head. "The Bobby I used to know would tell the Bureau to shove protocol up its ass and then strap on some Kevlar and kick ass right alongside me and my team." John pauses. "But I guess that Bobby doesn't exist anymore...does he, Deputy Director Singer?"

Mary glances at her husband, the hint of a smile on her lips and love shining plainly in her eyes. Because even if John Winchester worries the shit out of her sometimes; even if they disagree more than they agree; even if the issues between him and Sam are not yet resolved, John is still the love of her life, is still her badass hero in so many ways.

They make me sick.

Kinda.

I sigh and shake my head. "I'm gonna regret this..." I mutter to myself.

John shrugs. "Better safe than sorry, Bobby. If nothing happens, then fine. Spending an evening at church won't hurt any of my team, trust me. And for the record, I hope I _am_ wrong; I hope Azazel is a liar on top of everything else, and nothing happens tonight. But if something _does_ happen..."

John doesn't finish his statement because he doesn't need to.

I get it.

We _all_ get it.

And that's why – even without concrete data or reliable evidence – I'm giving my permission for John to take his team out tonight.

"Fine," I tell him with a sigh. "Make the calls, get things set up".

John smiles. "Thanks, Bobby," he responds genuinely, and I see a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

I offer a small smile in return, because I remember how that feels; to anticipate a stakeout; to feel confident in your team's experience and skill; to crave the adrenaline rush that danger brings.

And that's fine; that's part of being an agent; part of what makes an agent.

But this is not our usual type of case.

And I know John knows that, but still...

"John..." I begin.

"I know," John confirms before I can say more and nods for emphasis. "We'll be careful." He glances at Mary, making her the same promise. "No one's dying tonight, unless it's Azazel."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," I comment as I stand, feeling my left knee creak in protest.

John chuckles and watches me cross to the door. "I'll be in touch, Bobby."

I nod. "You do that," I encourage him. "And you watch yourself out there. Idjit."

John smiles. "I will," he assures as the door closes behind me.

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><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**MARY CAMPBELL WINCHESTER**_

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><p>Bobby is barely out of the conference room before John pulls his hand away from mine and digs his cell phone out of his front pocket.<p>

"Can you believe Bobby agreed to this?" he asks me as he presses #2 on his speed dial.

I shake my head, because I honestly can't believe it.

There's no data, no evidence. I've been through the stack of folders sitting on the table in front of me at least a dozen times this morning, and there's no recognizable pattern of behavior; absolutely nothing to imply that Azazel is even on this side of the country.

And yet John insists that Azazel is _here_; that it all begins again tonight.

I sigh, taking off my glasses and massaging the bridge of my nose as I close my eyes; willing the stress and tension out of my head.

"Where the hell is Dean?" I hear John wonder aloud, and I don't have to look to know that he's simultaneously checking his watch and double-checking his phone to make sure he pressed the correct button.

I sigh again and open my eyes, placing my glasses on the table. "He's with Sam."

"With Sam?" John repeats and then frowns. "Why?"

And for some reason, the question instantly makes me pissed..._again_.

"Because Dean had the afternoon off and wanted to spend time with his brother." I pause for maximum bitch effect. "Not all of us have disowned Sam like you have."

John scowls at my comment – as I knew he would – and I feel a twinge of satisfaction. Because maybe if I'm a bitch about this issue long enough, John will finally get his head out of his ass and make things right with our youngest.

A woman can certainly hope.

Because I just want my family back together.

That's what I want for Christmas.

That's my wish for the New Year.

I want my Sammy to smile again and to know that his dad loves him, even with everything that's happened. I want John to realize – as Dean already has – that Sam rejecting the FBI was not the same as Sam rejecting _him_. I want Dean to not constantly feel like he has to choose sides between his dad and his little brother.

"I haven't disowned Sam," John snaps, as though he's offended I would suggest that. "I just..."

His voice trails off as he presses a different speed dial number on his phone.

"You just _what_?" I ask and cross my arms over my chest, because I can't wait to hear this one.

John cuts his eyes in my direction; but when he speaks, it's not to me.

"Ellen, it's John. Meet in my office in an hour. Bring Jo," and then John hangs up and immediately presses another number on his phone.

I would love to see Ellen's face when she gets _that_ message. I can imagine her scowl and her choice words for my husband calling her and her daughter into the office on their day off.

I've always liked Ellen and her tendency to tell it like it is and to take "no bullshit from nobody" – including John; reminds me of myself.

But that daughter of hers...

I feel myself cringe at just the thought of Jo.

She had always been a bratty kid, but after her dad died – after Bill was killed in the line of duty almost 20 years ago, and Ellen was left to raise Jo on her own – Jo had transformed into an unbearable bitch; pissed at the world and always acting like she had something to prove.

...which I guess I can understand.

I lost my dad the same way she lost hers, and I remember feeling the same way for a long time.

I glance down at the bracelet on my right wrist and skim my fingers over the charms – _protective charms_, Dad had told me when he had first wrapped it around my arm on my eighth birthday – and I feel unexpectedly emotional at the memory.

I also remember the exact moment I decided I was going to follow in his footsteps and join the FBI, even after years of rejecting the idea every time Dad had mentioned it.

But after he died, it had just felt like the right thing to do; to continue the fight – _his_ fight – against the evil and the criminals of this world.

And it seemed Jo had felt the same way, too, as she had joined the Bureau a few years ago and had changed dramatically since then.

I still didn't care much for her – and was thankful beyond words that the short romance between her and Dean had not worked out. But at least Jo had mellowed in the years since her dad's death and was tolerable in small doses.

"I hate voicemail," John mutters, attracting my attention. "Where the hell is everybody?"

"Probably getting ready for Christmas," I tell him dryly. "That's what people generally do on Christmas Eve – except our family, of course. Our family tracks down serial killers."

"Azazel didn't ask for votes on which day of the year he should kill people, Mary. But he _is_ killing people – or will be – and it's my job to stop him."

"Yes, of course it is," I agree, my tone overly sweet. "Too bad it's at the expense of everything and everyone else, though."

John glares at me as he once again speaks into his phone. "Garth, we're meeting in my office in about an hour. I want you and Caleb there. And if you see Cas, tell him, too. I think his phone's not working again..."

I roll my eyes.

Cas's phone is never working.

Cas – or "Castiel" as he's sometimes more formally called – transferred in about a year ago. I can't remember where he's originally from, but his peculiar speech pattern and monotone voice definitely give him away to not being a native of this area of the country.

Cas seems very intelligent – both from what I've seen and from what John and Dean have told me – but he struggles with "street smarts" and has no clue about our pop culture references or jokes or slang. He tries to fit in with the rest of the team – and they've finally begun accepting him over the past few months – but he's still a strange one, if you ask me. Nice...but strange.

Speaking of nice but strange, I think of skinny, quiet, mousy little Garth. Bless his heart. He's adorable and likable and good at his job. But his wife, Becky – a crazy woman if I've ever seen one – is probably going to crawl his ass about having to skip out on her during Christmas Eve.

And then Caleb; Caleb's like a third son to us, like Dean's older brother. Neither John nor Dean would go out on a case without Caleb by their side, and I feel marginally comforted knowing that Caleb will be with them tonight.

I glance at John, still on his phone.

"Gordon, it's John. Meet in my office in an hour," he tells the voicemail and then ends the call and tosses his phone on the table; the phone actually sliding a few inches across the slick, shiny surface.

I narrow my eyes.

John arches an eyebrow. "What?"

"Why the hell did you call Gordon Walker?" I demand, because I hate that sneaky, backstabbing sonuvabitch and thought John had learned his lesson about him two months ago when Gordon had been caught leaking classified information to the media; a stunt that had put John's team in unnecessary danger.

John shrugs. "We need every man on this, Mary."

"Not Gordon," I correct. "Not after what he did."

John shakes his head. "It was just a misunderstanding. I don't blame him for that."

I say nothing, pissed beyond words.

There's silence as John stares at me.

And I stare right back.

"What?" he asks, and his tone only pisses me off more.

"What the fuck do you think, John?" I yell, thankful the conference room door is still closed.

John continues to stare at me with a blank expression, completely clueless; probably thinking I'm having a bitchfit because it's "that time of the month" or something equally stupid.

"You are un-_fucking_-believable," I tell him, and I hope he knows that's not a compliment.

John's expression instantly hardens. "How so?"

"How so?" I repeat incredulously and lean forward in my chair so that my face is closer to his. "You don't blame that asshole Gordon for what he intentionally did that almost got you and Dean and your entire team killed – but you blame Sam for something he had no control over?"

John's expression softens as he realizes the connection I'm making, and he shakes his head. "It's not like that, Mary."

There's silence between us.

"Then how is it?" I finally ask; desperate to know, to understand, to help make this right.

John shakes his head again. "I don't know," he admits quietly and looks straight at me. "You know, me and Sam used to be so close when he was growing up. Him and me and Dean...we were inseparable. And when Dean joined the Bureau, I guess I figured Sam would, too." He pauses. "But then he didn't, and I just..." John's voice trails off. "I don't know."

I sigh, feeling my anger drain as I'm reminded that although my husband seems larger than life most of the time, John is still just a man. And like most men, John's strength is not in communicating; especially not in communicating with other men about matters of the heart.

For most of this year, I've thought John's delay in making things right with Sam was simply his stubborn refusal to do so.

But I was wrong.

It wasn't that John didn't _want_ to fix things between him and Sam; it was that John didn't know _how_ to; had no clue where to start; had been so hurt and so pissed for so long that he didn't know how to let go and start fresh.

I sigh again and grasp John's hand, intertwining my fingers with his. "I know you were disappointed when Sam went his own way, John. But he didn't do it to hurt you. He was rejecting this life, not you."

"I know," John says quietly, his callused thumb sweeping over my knuckles.

I nod, because I know he knows; but he still needs to hear it.

"Sammy has always been headstrong and independent, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want or need his family." I pause, making sure John is listening to me. "And right now, the thing Sam wants and needs the most is for things to be right between you and him again."

John snorts, trying to deflect the emotional intensity of my words, of this moment. "He has Dean," he reminds me.

"Yeah, he does," I agree, because we both know – hell, the _whole world_ knows – that Sammy will always have Dean. "But he needs you too, John."

John swallows, and although his eyes are dry, I know there's a lump of emotion in his throat. Because badass or not, John's weak spot has always been his family – me and the boys.

"Reach out to him, John," I urge and squeeze his hand, still linked with mine, as extra encouragement.

Because we both know that Sam has already attempted – several times – to extend the proverbial olive branch, only to have John snap it like a twig and throw it in his face.

John sighs and shakes his head. "I don't know, Mary. So much shit has happened between me and Sam over the past couple of years. I don't even know where to start."

I smile. "Well, lucky for you, Sam's a sweet kid."

John chuckles, deep and quiet – one my favorite sounds – but doesn't deny that description of our youngest.

"If you reach out to him, John, I promise Sam will reach back."

John nods and looks at me with an expression of relief and cautious hope; because he knows I'm right and is as eager for his and Sam's relationship to be restored as I am.

I smile again, feeling happier than I have in a long time.

John smiles back, and I pause, appreciating my husband's rugged good looks; that scruff of a beard, those dimples, those eyes, that dark hair. It was definitely his looks that drew me in all those years ago when we first met; but it was everything else – the kind of man he is, the kind of father I knew he would be – that made me stick around.

John arches an eyebrow as I continue to stare at him. "What?"

I shrug. "Nothing."

I brush my fingers through his hair, knowing he hates the gray that's beginning to show even if I think it's kinda sexy.

"I just...I love you, John. And I love our boys. And I just want us to be a family again. I want all of the hurt feelings and misunderstandings and the other awkward, stupid crap out in the open and dealt with, so we can move past it. I want the new year to be different, John."

"Me, too," he says genuinely and squeezes my hand.

"Then you'll talk to Sam?"

John nods. "First thing tomorrow."

My first instinct is to protest, because I want this to happen _tonight_. But I know that John has other things to worry about tonight, and I don't want him distracted. So, I guess tomorrow will have to be soon enough.

"Okay," I agree. "But don't put it off, John. It's already been too long."

"I know," he assures me and then glances at his phone as it begins to vibrate on the table.

"Bet that's Dean calling you back," I comment as I untangle my hand from John's grasp and reach for his phone.

But a quick check of the caller display makes me cringe.

John chuckles at my expression. "Let me guess...Ellen?"

I scrunch my face for dramatic effect. "Yep. 'Fraid so."

John shrugs, taking the phone from my grasp and pressing "ignore".

I laugh, wondering how many times he's done the same to me when I've called and deciding I probably don't want to know.

"She'll just call back," I warn him.

John shrugs again and stands, pocketing his phone.

I follow his lead – as I often do – and stand as well, grabbing my glasses from where I had set them earlier on the table and straightening the stack of folders before scooping them up in the crook of my arm.

"Your office?" I ask him, referring to the location of the team meeting.

"Or yours..." he answers and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, talking about something entirely different than a team meeting.

"Behave," I playfully admonish him, and he growls at me.

I laugh and grab a handful of his shirt, pulling him closer. "I love you, John Winchester," I whisper, and I hope he knows I mean it with all my heart.

John smiles, showing me those dimples again. "Not as much as I love you," he answers, which is what we always respond with when the other says those three words first.

We kiss each other, longer and deeper than we should at work, and only stop because John's phone starts vibrating again.

He sighs loudly. "If that's Ellen..."

I would bet money that it was definitely Ellen, but I say nothing; continuing to stand opposite John, running my index finger along my bottom lip; my mouth feeling overly warm and puffy from the vigorous kiss.

John pulls his phone from his pocket and looks pleasantly surprised. "It's Dean."

I smile at the mention of my oldest son's name and immediately wonder if Dean is still with Sam; if everything is okay; if they've had a good time this afternoon just hanging out and being brothers.

I doubt they know how much it means to me that they still do that; how happy it makes me; how happy _they_ make me and how much I love them.

_Not as much as I love you_ applies to them the most; to my Sammy and my Dean.

"Hey, Dean," John answers his phone and then pauses. "Yeah, I called about ten minutes ago." He pauses again. "No, nothing's wrong. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later tonight."

And for some reason, that phrase – "maybe later tonight" – makes my stomach twist.

I really, _really_ hope John is wrong about all of this – about Azazel and the church and the whole nightmare starting over tonight.

And I don't even want to _think_ about that ominous "blood on the door" comment.

There's another pause as John listens to Dean's response.

"Yeah, we think it's Azazel. Sick bastard." John shakes his head, and I know he's switching back into agent mode. "Listen, there's a briefing in my office in about an hour. I need you to get here."

John nods, and I know it's because Dean said he was on his way; and I know that means the conversation is almost over.

Before I can stop myself, I give a little wave, and John rolls his eyes.

"Your mom says 'hey'," he dutifully reports into the phone and then laughs, lowering the phone from his mouth. "Dean says 'hey back' and wants to know what kind of pie you're baking for tomorrow's dessert."

I smile, because no one loves pie like my oldest; it's the only reason I bake one during the holidays.

"Whatever kind he wants," I respond, still smiling.

"Whatever kind you want," John repeats to Dean and then rolls his eyes again, directing his attention back to me. "Sam says if Dean gets pie, then he wants cake."

Sam says?

So that means Dean _is_ still with Sam.

My smile widens.

"Tell Dean to tell Sam that I've already got the cake," I relay through John.

John sighs. "Did you get that?" he asks Dean. "Good. Glad we've got _that_ settled." He chuckles at whatever Dean says. "Yeah, okay. Take Sam home, and we'll see you in an hour or so..."

John ends the call and looks at me, feigning annoyance even as he's smiling.

I arch an eyebrow. "What?"

"You spoil them."

I shrug innocently and offer my only defense. "It's a mom thing."

"I guess," John agrees and kisses me quickly on the lips as he passes by me on his way to the door. "See you downstairs in a few."

I nod as he leaves the conference room, watching him through the open door until he turns the corner and disappears down the hall.

I sigh and shift the folders I'm still holding, resting them on my hip and feeling my fingers once again brush the charms of my bracelet.

_Protective charms_, my dad had told me, and I hope he's right; hope that protection stretches wide enough to cover me and my family, especially tonight.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**KAREN SINGER**_

* * *

><p>I'm about to add the eggs to my cake batter – even though I know Mary already has desserts for tomorrow's dinner and said I didn't need to bring anything – when my phone rings.<p>

"You got to know when to hold 'em..." Kenny Rogers advises me, and I smile as I recognize the ringtone.

Bobby's calling.

I place the carton of eggs on the counter beside the standing mixer.

"...know when to fold 'em..."

I quickly wipe my hands on my apron, knowing if Kenny gets to "know when to walk away" the call will go to voicemail.

"Hello?" I answer, as if I don't already know who's calling.

"Karen..."

"Oh, Bobby, it's you!" I exclaim, knowing he knows he has his own ringtone on my phone – he picked it out, after all – and that I already knew it was him. "Make it quick, sweetie. My boyfriend is here."

He chuckles because this is part of what we do, how we show our love – we tease each other.

"He's there again?" Bobby asks, playing along.

"Mmhmm," I answer, my distracted tone having nothing to do with another man being in the house and everything to do with my deciding to multitask while I'm on the phone.

I tap one of the eggs on the side of the mixing bowl.

"Are you cracking eggs?" Bobby asks, and I swear that man has the ears of a bat – he can hear _anything_.

I used to think eagles were the animals with the best hearing, but Sam Winchester set me straight on that when he was kid.

I smile at the unexpected memory of six-year old Sammy – with "sa-sketti" sauce smeared around his mouth and across his chin – launching into an in-depth lecture on the topic one night at the dinner table when he and his brother, Dean, had stayed over with me and Bobby while John and Mary had been out of town.

Ten-year old Dean had rolled his eyes, even as he had smiled and winked at me and my husband, clearly proud of his smart little brother even then.

"Karen..."

I blink at the sound of Bobby's voice in my ear.

"Yes," I answer. "That was an egg."

"You're not baking, are you?"

He already knows I am, so I don't answer; I just crack another egg.

"Karen, Mary told you not to worry about bringing anything to dinner tomorrow night," Bobby reminds me patiently, knowing he would be better off talking to himself about this issue.

"That's just something women say to other women," I tell him, as I've told him before. "If you think I'm showing up at the Winchesters' front door empty-handed, then you're bat-shit crazy, Bobby."

Bobby chuckles at the mention of one of his favorite phrases. "Hey. That's my line."

I smile and place the egg carton back in the fridge. "I know."

There's a pause, and I feel the mood of our conversation change.

"Listen..." Bobby begins, and I instantly feel dread creep up my spine.

Because no conversation between us has ever ended well when it started with "listen".

"What?" I ask cautiously, closing the fridge and crossing back to the counter.

"I might be late tonight."

I give a breathy, relieved laugh. "Is that all?"

Because although that sucks, especially since it's Christmas Eve, it's not a huge deal. Having been married to an FBI man for over 30 years, I'm used to plans changing at the last minute.

But thankfully, we have no plans tonight. Tomorrow is the big deal for us, when we'll go over to the Winchesters' and spend most of Christmas Day with Mary and John and the boys.

At least I hope both boys are there. Considering all that's happened this past year and everything between John and Sam, I'm not sure. The last time I spoke with Mary, she was unsure herself, and I could tell she was upset about it; so I haven't asked again since then.

And that was two or three weeks ago...

I sigh and glance at my recipe card taped to the front of the cabinet at eye-level.

"It's okay," I assure Bobby, my eyes skimming the ingredient list as I'm back to multitasking. "I'll miss you tonight, but as long as you're home and we're all together tomorrow, that's what matters."

Bobby doesn't respond, and I feel dread begin to creep in again.

"Bobby?"

"I'm not sure about tomorrow yet," he tells me.

I narrow my eyes. "What the hell does that mean?"

Bobby sighs, and I can tell that he's tired and worried.

I lean against the counter, somehow knowing I'll need the support. "Bobby?"

"Karen..." Bobby sighs again. "Azazel might be back."

I shake my head, because I'm certain I heard wrong. "What?"

"Yeah," Bobby confirms, and I can picture his pinched expression. "That's why I'll probably be late tonight."

I shake my head again, feeling myself becoming frantic. "No," I state, with more force than I intend. "No, Bobby. You don't go out in the field anymore."

"I know," Bobby soothes, recognizing my tone. "I'm not going out, Karen. But John and his team..."

I nod, finishing the statement for myself. "John and his team are."

"Yeah," Bobby says again, and I can tell that although he thinks it's the right choice, he still feels conflicted about it. "John says Azazel called him last night, told him it's all going to start happening again tonight at Jim Murphy's church."

I can hear a sliver of doubt in Bobby's voice. "Do you agree?"

There's a pause.

Bobby sighs. "I don't know. There's no concrete evidence to suggest that anything is going to happen, but – "

"But what if something does happen, and you allowed it to happen because you didn't give John and his team permission to go and check it out," I finish for him, because I know how my husband thinks.

I'm sure John Winchester used the same argument, and I would love to know what Mary thinks about all of this.

Because although she loves her husband, Mary is the first to admit that John is unhealthily obsessed with Azazel's case; she and I have discussed it – and worried about it – numerous times over the years.

In fact, I know that's why sometimes Mary would send Sam and Dean to stay with me and Bobby, especially when they were little; so the boys wouldn't have to deal with the stress and fear of having to hear about Azazel 24/7 whenever their dad was home.

I sigh and fidget with the end of my braid resting on my shoulder; a nervous habit.

"So you're staying at the office in case something happens tonight," I state, filling in the blanks.

"I think it's best," Bobby confirms. "I'm not sure what will happen tonight. But anytime a team goes out, there's the potential for a dangerous situation."

"I know," I agree, not needing the reminder; remembering quite clearly the phone call I had received four years ago informing me that Bobby had been shot – in the _head_ – during a stakeout.

_Most of the time, cases like this..._

And the doctor hadn't finished the statement, but I had known what he was saying; what he was preparing me for; what he had expected.

But my Bobby had proved him wrong; had proved them _all_ wrong.

That year following the injury had been a rocky one, but Bobby was fine now; was alive and well and back to his cranky, yet charming self; back to making me smile and laugh and feel like the luckiest woman in the world to have ended up with him as my husband.

I feel tears sting my eyes as I'm overwhelmed by emotions, both from the memory of what had happened to Bobby and from what might happen tonight.

Because although Bobby is no longer in the field and is out of harm's way – having been promoted to Deputy Director two years after being shot – our friends, our _chosen family..._especially the Winchesters...are still in danger.

"I hope John is wrong," I tell Bobby and can picture him nodding in agreement, unconsciously rubbing at that scar on his forehead; the one left behind by that bullet.

"I do, too," Bobby says. "But I don't know, Karen. I don't have a good feeling about this, either way."

I swallow against the fear that's clogging my throat.

"Well..." I sigh, trying to force cheer into my voice. "You've been wrong before, Bobby. And so has John."

Bobby chuckles. "Yeah."

I give a small smile of hope, even if Bobby can't see it. "I'm sure we'll all laugh about this tomorrow over Christmas dinner."

And "laugh" was not quite the word I was looking for, but I know Bobby knows what I mean.

There's silence on the line.

"Do you know if Sam is coming tomorrow?" I ask, trying to change the topic; refusing to talk as if tomorrow is not going to happen.

Bobby sighs. "I don't know. With everything going on, I haven't had a chance to ask. But Mary and John got into it earlier in the conference room, so I don't think that situation is resolved yet."

I shake my head, instantly annoyed. "The whole damn thing is so ridiculous. It makes me want to slap John Winchester for being such a stubborn dumbass!"

Bobby chuckles at my outburst. "Whoa. Easy, Rocky. Don't go throwin' punches just yet. John knows he's being a dick, but I just don't think he knows how to fix it."

I grunt my opinion of that.

Bobby chuckles again.

"It's not hard, Bobby," I tell him, although he already knows. "John just needs to open his mouth and apologize. Sam would forgive him in a second." I pause, considering who I'm talking about. "Hell, knowing Sam, he probably already _has_ forgiven John."

"I'm sure he has," Bobby agrees. "Mary has all but said so, from the little I've overheard."

I nod, my grip tightening around my phone. "I'm telling you, Bobby – if Sam's not there tomorrow all because of John, I'm going to be _pissed_."

And Bobby knows I'm not joking.

Sam and Dean aren't ours by blood; but they're ours in every other way that counts.

Bobby and I were never able to have kids, not for biological reasons but for psychological – Bobby afraid he would end up like his own abusive, alcoholic father.

Those were also rocky years for us.

But then Mary had Dean; and four years later, along came Sam.

And somehow, everything was right again.

Bobby and I had always been close to the Winchesters – Bobby having worked with John for years at the Bureau, which led to Mary and me becoming close friends...almost like sisters in our relationship.

I was there for her when her dad had died in the line of duty; and then when her mother had died unexpectedly in her sleep in a few months after that.

And she was there for me about this.

Mary, of course, knew of mine and Bobby's struggle on the topic of kids; knew of how he and I had almost divorced over the issue; knew how much I had wanted a baby.

So when Dean was born – a loud bundle of badass spunk, even then...bald head and all – Mary asked me to be his godmother.

I smile, remembering the first time I saw baby Dean; the first time Mary placed him in my arms, and thus in my heart.

Bobby had been a bit standoffish at first, but once he had also held Dean, he was hooked.

And then when Sam had arrived – sweet baby Sammy with those chubby little legs and those beautiful big eyes and that head full of hair – well...

I laugh softly, remembering how quickly Sam had all of us – even four-year old Dean and crotchety ol' Bobby – wrapped around his pudgy little finger.

"What?" Bobby asks, clearly confused as to why I'm suddenly laughing.

"Just thinking about our boys," I explain, glancing at the photo of Sam and Dean on our fridge; Dean's arm slung over his brother's shoulder; both smiling back at me.

I smile, too; thankful Bobby and I are their godparents; thankful that even though Bobby and I never had kids, we still ended up with the best two boys anyone could ask for.

I think of John and Mary; and although John irritates the crap out of me sometimes, I'm thankful for them, too.

I sigh, feeling worry and sadness seep back into my heart.

Nothing can happen tonight.

It just _can't_.

I close my eyes, feeling dangerously close to tears. "Bobby..."

"They'll be fine, Karen," Bobby soothes, and I can't tell if he believes that or not.

But it's the only outcome I'll even consider for tonight – that when this is all over, everyone is going to be fine.

I open my eyes and nod. "You're right," I tell him, willing it to be true.

"I'm always right," Bobby quips, and I huff a laugh.

There's a pause.

"I'll call you later," he tells me.

"You better," I advise him. "I gotta have time to get my boyfriend out of the house before you get home."

Bobby chuckles, easily slipping back into our routine. "Fair enough," he allows. "And if Farrah Fawcett calls..."

"I'll take a message," I assure him and smile.

There's another pause.

"I love you, Bobby," I tell him, because after everything we've just discussed I want to make sure he knows.

And when I see the Winchesters tomorrow, I'm going to tell them I love them as well...especially those two boys, my Sam and Dean.

"I love you, too," Bobby says to me, and his tone is so sincere, so genuine that it makes me want to cry.

I smile again. "Be safe, and I'll see you when you get home."

"Okay," he agrees, and we end the call.

I stand there in our kitchen, holding my closed phone with my back against the counter, staring at that photo of Sam and Dean on our fridge.

"The same goes for you two," I tell them, even though I know Sam won't be going to that church in a few hours with John's team, and I take comfort – as I'm sure Mary does – that at least one of my boys is assured safety tonight.

I exhale a shaky breath and set my phone back on the counter before reaching for the iPod dock and turning on some music, needing the distraction and smiling when Eartha Kitt starts singing about Santa Baby.

"Okay..." I sigh, focusing back on the recipe for this cake; the one I'm not supposed to bring but always do; the one I'm taking to the Winchesters' house tomorrow.

Because we're going to have Christmas dinner together, like always.

Because everything is going to be okay; it just _has_ _to be..._

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	4. Chapter 4

_**ELLEN HARVELLE**_

* * *

><p>John's office is too damn small for all of us to be in here.<p>

And yet here we are; all seven of us, minus John, crammed into these four walls like sardines in a can.

And I'm sure Mary will be coming, too. Because wherever John is, she's usually right behind or beside him. Call it love or codependency or whatever, but those two are definitely a pair; can't have one without the other – Special Agent Man and his beautiful wife, the profiling genius.

They make me sick.

But if I'm honest with myself, I know it's just jealousy; because even after all these years, I still miss my Bill so damn much.

I shake my head, scattering the feelings that usually come with remembering my husband. I have enough to deal with right now without adding those to the mix.

I glance around the room and sigh loudly, just in case anyone wonders my opinion of being called into the office on Christmas Eve, and then glance at my daughter sitting beside me.

Predictably, Jo is staring across the room at Dean.

I roll my eyes.

If I've told her once, I've told her a hundred times to let that boy go.

But Jo is convinced that one day Dean will realize his "mistake" of breaking off their short-lived relationship and will come back to her.

I roll my eyes again.

For her sake, I hope she's wrong; because Dean has just enough of his daddy's personality to be a colossal pain in the ass.

Of course, all men are colossal pains in the ass, if you ask me.

I glance at Mary and John as they enter the room, finally gracing us with their presence and freshly pissing me off.

Because seriously – what the hell could possibly be so damn important as to drag us all in here on our day off?

I narrow my eyes as John starts to speak.

This better be good.

* * *

><p><em><strong>JO HARVELLE<strong>_

* * *

><p>Dean looks really good today.<p>

Of course, Dean always looks really good; probably looks good first thing in the morning when he gets out of bed, not that I would know since our relationship never made it to that point.

I sigh, freshly depressed by that reminder.

Life sucks.

It especially sucks today since one of the few days we get off has somehow turned into a workday.

Mom and I were out shopping – a rarity for us – when John called and totally screwed over our day.

...which is just as well.

Christmas Eve – and every other holiday – hasn't been the same since dad died. I mean...the holidays have gotten easier over the years, but they're still just days to me; nothing special.

Mom goes through the motions – because I think she thinks that somehow makes a difference for me – but I know she feels the same way as I do.

So, it's just as well that we're at the office; gives us something else to focus on besides how much our lives suck.

I just hope this is worth our time.

I glance back at Dean, who is now staring at me.

I startle, feeling my heart leap in my chest before I realize that he's not staring _at_ me; he's staring _past_ me.

I turn slightly to see who has attracted his attention.

Ah, his mom.

Of course.

The Winchesters seem to have a sixth sense for each other, and I'm not surprised to see Mary walk through the door of John's office, with John following closely behind her.

Mary smiles at me as she crosses over to her son, and I wonder if the expression feels as fake to her as it looks to me.

Because I know she doesn't like me.

...which is fine, because I don't like her, either.

I've always suspected she encouraged Dean to break up with me, and I sometimes regret having not made a better first impression on her.

But whatever...water under the bridge and all that crap.

I'm probably destined to die young and alone anyway; because my life sucks.

I sigh and glance at John as he starts to speak.

This should be interesting.

* * *

><p><em><strong>DEAN WINCHESTER<strong>_

* * *

><p>Jo is so fucking annoying, and if she keeps staring at me, I'll probably end up telling her so before the night is over.<p>

Because seriously – get...a...life.

I sigh and shake my head, reminding myself that I may have 99 problems; but a bitch ain't one.

The familiar lyric makes me smile.

How could Sam ever say I wasn't as funny as I thought I was?

I'm fucking hilarious!

I feel Jo's eyes on me again, and I sigh harshly, ignoring her latest round of staring and knowing most of my frustration and pissy mood has less to do with clingy ex-girlfriends and more to do with crazy-ass serial killers.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the room who knows Azazel is potentially back in town. I know Mom knows and Uncle Bobby knows, but Dad would have never dropped that bomb on anyone over the phone – except me – and I'm sure as hell not letting that cat out of the bag.

I had hesitated in even telling Sam, although my brother knows my body language and had known something was up the second Dad had told me. I had stalled as long as I could after ending the call with Dad, knowing Azazel was our family's proverbial elephant in the room; the thing we all saw and knew about, but nobody wanted to talk about.

But Sammy's a persistent little shit, and before I knew it, I was telling him the news – Azazel is back.

At first Sam didn't say anything; had just stared at me with those huge eyes of his, looking stunned and confused and overwhelmed by the revelation.

But in the next instant, he had squeezed his eyes shut and had pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing in pain and blindly reaching out for me to ground himself.

I shake my head at the memory, freshly worried about my little brother and pissed that he has to endure those stupid fucking migraines.

Sam has had a lot of those lately, and I know it's because of all the stress caused by the situation with Dad.

But this headache had come on unusually fast, and the pain had seemed to be abnormally intense, actually causing Sam's knees to buckle.

Before I knew it, we were both sprawled in the middle of the sidewalk, with me simultaneously calling Sam's name and waving off strangers offering to help.

A few agonizing seconds later, it – whatever the hell _it_ was – had seemed to be over.

Sam's face had scrunched and he had swallowed hard, blinking at me like he hadn't quite known where he was or what had happened.

Sam had then slurred my name and had reached forward, grabbing a handful of my shirt and grasping the amulet hidden underneath.

I smile faintly, feeling the cool metal of the amulet against my skin even now as it rests on my chest under my shirt.

The amulet Sammy had given me when we were kids; the amulet I had thought was the ugliest piece of shit I had ever seen that Christmas Eve when I had first unwrapped it but would not trade for anything now; the amulet I always wore, even if it was rarely seen, usually hidden underneath my t-shirts or dress shirts or whatever I was wearing.

Sam had once told me the amulet had protective qualities, and I guess that's good.

But that's not why I wear it; not why I've worn it for close to 20 years, or why I'll wear it even when I'm dead and buried.

I wear it because Sam gave it to me; an expression of love and trust and _it's-you-and-me-against-the-world_ all in one ugly-ass little gold charm.

I smile again and nod to myself; my hand brushing over the amulet as I remember how Sam's grasp had tightened around the fabric and the charm as we had continued to sit on that sidewalk earlier this afternoon.

Sam had continued to slur my name over and over; his panic and confusion escalating as more people had begun to gather around us; the growing crowd buzzing with curiosity more than concern at the unusual sight of two grown men sprawled on the ground, holding onto each other.

I had rubbed Sam's back – not giving a shit that people were staring at us – and then we had sat on the sidewalk for a few more minutes; Sam slowly calming as my touch and my voice had helped him regain his bearings.

Once I had finally gotten Sam back on his feet, we had made the trek back to the car – me grasping Sam's arm, physically leading him the entire way to the parking deck.

When I had finally seen the familiar black '67 Impala – the car I had driven since I was 16, when Dad had given me the keys for my birthday that year – I was flooded with relief.

But Sam had blinked owlishly as he had stood beside me while I had unlocked the passenger side door, like he hadn't recognized car.

That level of disorientation was concerning enough; but during the ride home, Sam had mumbled something about blood on the door of a church.

The comment had kinda freaked me out – even now as I remember it – but Sam's eyes had been closed, and his head had been leaned against the passenger side window; so I'm sure he was just dozing and dreaming.

Right?

I nod to myself.

Of course, right.

It's not like Sam is psychic or has visions or some weird-ass crap like that. He just had a migraine and a really vivid aura, just like he's had numerous times since his early 20s.

And even though it sucks and I hate seeing my brother in pain, Sam is fine.

When we had gotten back to our apartment, Sam had seemed more coherent – even if his eyes had still been squinted in lingering pain – and he had apologized for scaring me.

I had called him a bitch and had reminded him that I don't scare that easily.

Sam had laughed, sounding tired as he had taken the medication I had handed to him and then had settled down on the couch.

When I had left ten minutes later, the kid was already asleep.

But Sam was fine.

He was always exhausted after a migraine and would probably sleep for a few hours before hooking up with Jess later tonight.

Sam was fine.

I nod again in agreement with myself, but I still can't shake the uneasy feeling that's bothered me since this afternoon; my big brother sixth sense...or whatever.

Speaking of sixth senses, I hear the familiar click of Mom's heels on the tile in the hall, followed by Dad's classic stride, and I know even before I turn to look that my parents are about to enter the room.

Sure enough, in the next second, Mom breezes in with Dad close behind, and I try to get my thoughts off Sam – _because he's fine_ – and back into the case.

Mom smiles politely at Jo, and I wonder if Jo knows just how much Mom dislikes her.

Judging by the expression on Jo's face, I would bet she does. Not that I'm surprised; women always seem to know other women's opinions of them.

I mean...Mom never called Lisa Braeden an obnoxious, self-centered whore to her face – but I think Lisa still knew what Mom thought her...and her equally obnoxious, bratty kid.

I shudder at the memory of those two – of Lisa and Ben and all the fucked-up shit that happened between us that year-and-a-half Lisa and I dated. They say hindsight is 20/20, but holy hell – what the fuck was I thinking hooking up with _her_?

I shake my head – because the less I think about that bitch, the better – and I try to put my game face on as Mom approaches.

Because I know she's going to ask me about Sam and if he's okay and if I'm okay and if the afternoon went well and all those other things moms want to know. And if she gets even the slightest hint that I'm worried, that something happened, that Sam had a migraine so intense that it literally put him on his knees...

"Hi, sweetie," Mom greets me and rubs my arm, when I know she really wants to give me a hug; and if we weren't at the office in front of the whole team, she would have.

"Hey," I return and try to smile, which I know is a mistake the instant I do it; because while women excel at fake expressions, men suck at it.

Mom frowns. "What's wrong?"

I shrug. "What's _not_ wrong?" I answer, a classic counter and deflect tactic we sometimes use in the interrogation room.

I hold my breath, hoping it works.

And amazingly enough, it does.

It's a Christmas miracle.

Mom nods and rubs my arm again in silent comfort.

I sigh, focusing on Dad as he starts to speak and crossing my arms over my chest; once again feeling the amulet beneath my shirt and thinking I might call Sammy when this meeting is over just to check on him.

Not that I'm worried; because Sam is fine.

I just need to make sure before we head out tonight.

* * *

><p><em><strong>CALEB BLACKER <strong>_

* * *

><p>Something's up with Dean.<p>

I'm not sure what – but _something_.

If I had to guess, I would say it was probably something to do with Sam.

Because that's how Dean operates – totally unfazed by everything and everyone...except that little brother of his.

Not that I can blame him.

Sam seems to attract trouble like a pile of shit attracts flies; and there's certainly been no shortage of shit over the past year. Seems every time I turn around a fresh batch is hitting the fan.

I shake my head and glance across the room, glaring at Jo when I catch her staring at Dean – _again_.

Someone needs to give that bitch a clue for Christmas.

_Dear Jo: That ship has sailed, and your ass got left behind. Love, Santa_

I laugh to myself – because I'm fucking hilarious – and then glance around the rest of the room.

Nobody looks happy to be here; all pissed about being called in on their day off.

And _that_ pisses _me_ off.

Either you're an FBI agent or a fucking crybaby – take your pick. And if you pick the second option, don't let the door hit you in the ass when you leave.

I shake my head, disgusted sometimes by the punk-ass bitches I have to work with.

Because being a member of John Winchester's team is an honor and a privilege; I mean...the man's a fucking legend.

But instead of appreciating the opportunity, these ungrateful bastards piss and moan and drive me fucking crazy.

I sigh harshly, counting to ten and thinking those anger management classes are really starting to pay off.

I can tell.

I glance again at Dean and follow his gaze to the door just in time to see Mary and John enter the office.

Mary crosses to Dean, and John crosses to the front of the room.

And just like that, I'm excited and revved up; because if John felt whatever he has to tell us was important enough to call all of us in here on our day off, on Christmas Eve, then the news is going to be epic, and I can't fucking wait.

Because all I want for Christmas is to kick some fucking ass.

* * *

><p><em><strong>GORDON WALKER<strong>_

* * *

><p>I'm surrounded by fucking idiots.<p>

...which is annoying as hell but makes my job a lot easier.

Because as far as I can tell, nobody suspects anything – not even the almighty John Winchester; his call this afternoon proves it.

He wants me in on this case?

No problem.

Because I'm already _in_ on this case; only John doesn't know that yet.

I smile to myself, anticipating the sweet taste of victory and trying to imagine John's face when he finally realizes what's happening.

"Too little, too late" is one of John's favorite phrases, and I can't wait to see his reaction when that description is applied to him and his piss-poor efforts to save his family.

Smart, lovely Mary...cocky, macho Dean...and sweet, well-meaning Sammy...

I smile again as I think about what awaits each of them; months of planning finally paying off tonight.

I glance around the room, not surprised that no one is paying attention to me. I've never fit in with this group, and I've never wanted to. They're all a bunch of dumbasses, and a few are finally going to get what's coming to them in just a few hours.

I'm looking at my watch, calculating the exact number of hours I have to continue to endure these assholes, when John and Mary arrive.

Everyone immediately perks up, eager to hear whatever news our great leader deemed important enough to call all of us to his office on Christmas Eve, one of the few days we get off during the entire year.

But I already know the big news.

John's not the one with the secret in this room.

I am.

* * *

><p><em><strong>GARTH QUALLS<strong>_

* * *

><p>It's Christmas Eve, and my wife is going to get me fired.<p>

Because even though I've already told her _twice_ that I have to go, she keeps texting me every five seconds.

"Woo-hoo! Alright! Somebody done sent me a text message!" my phone alerts me, the ringtone's voice sounding like it's been sucking helium.

Beside me, Cas tilts his head like a confused dog, staring at my phone.

"It's my wife," I quickly explain, reading the message. "She's not happy that I'm here."

"Where would she rather you be?" Cas asks in that formal way he has.

"Um, with her," I answer distractedly, trying to decipher the abbreviations on the tiny screen. "She loves Christmas. It's her favorite holiday. She decorates the entire house, and we have at least 20 of those inflatable things in the front yard and lights in the bushes and all that."

Cas stares at me blankly, which always makes me uncomfortable.

"Woo-hoo! Alright! Somebody done – "

"Shut up!" I growl at my phone, pressing the button to interrupt the ringtone and to see what Becky is saying now. "Oh, man. I forgot about that."

"What?"

I glance at Cas, who has lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes and is staring at me like he can see my thoughts or my soul...or something.

"Um..." I swallow. "Becky's planning a birthday party for Jesus and wants me to pick up the balloons on my way home."

Cas shakes his head. "Jesus was not born on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. That's a common misconception."

I stare at him, uncertain what to say and thankful Becky is not here to hear this.

"The precise day of Jesus's birth is unknown," Cas continues. "But most of us agree that it occurred in the spring between 7 and 2 BC, likely either April or May."

"Oh," I say and nod, because I feel like I should at least acknowledge that he spoke.

"Woo-hoo! Alright! Some – "

I quickly press the button on my phone and squint at the screen again, cringing to see all capital letters this time.

"In the early 4th century, the Western Christian Church first placed Christmas on December 25th to coincide with either the date of the Roman winter solstice or of some ancient pagan winter festival," Cas tells me, as though I had asked him for more explanation, and then looks at me expectantly.

"Um..." I try to think of what to say to him and what to type to Becky. "Is that so?"

...which is a lame response, but I can only handle one crazy person at a time. And my wife takes precedence.

I'm in the middle of replying to Becky – one hen-pecked letter at a time – when Cas speaks again.

"He is here," Cas says, and his tone is so reverent that I half expect to look up and see that Jesus has unexpectedly joined us to weigh in on the topic of His birthdate.

But it's just John, so...

"Woo-hoo! Al – "

"Stop it!" I hiss at my phone and smile apologetically when John glares in my direction.

I hold up my phone to show John that I'm turning it off, which will likely result in my death later tonight when I get home; because Becky hates to be ignored.

I sigh, pocketing my phone and remembering the good ol' days; back when it was just me and my dog, Marmaduke.

"Alright, listen up..." John begins, and I blink, instantly refocused.

Because I know whatever John is about to tell us, whatever is about to happen – it's going to be big.

Why else would he have called all of us here on Christmas Eve?

"You ready to rumble?" I whisper to Cas excitedly, forgetting about the misery waiting for me at home.

Cas frowns at me. "I don't understand that reference."

Of course he doesn't.

I chuckle. "Cas, you crazy," I tell him and turn my attention back to John.

* * *

><p><em><strong>CASTIEL COLLINS<strong>_

* * *

><p>This is a strange new world I have transferred into, nothing like home.<p>

Everyone is nice enough, but I can tell I am not really accepted as part of the team; not yet. I am still the weird new guy, while everyone else has practically grown up together it seems. They have a history together and inside jokes; and although lately a few of them have tried to include me, I rarely understand what they are saying to me.

It is like we speak a different language, and I can tell it frustrates them.

It frustrates me, too.

Some days all I want is to go home, to go back from where I came.

But then I remind myself that I came here with a job to do; a job that no one else wanted.

And in that I find my strength.

I glance around the room, noticing Jo staring at Dean and wondering if she knows the two of them are not meant to be; that she will die young, but will do so for the sake of others she loves and will be remembered as brave and selfless.

I glance at Ellen, standing beside her daughter, and I wonder if she knows that although her husband is safe on the other side, Bill still misses her as much as she misses him. I wonder if Ellen knows that in a few short years, she will join him; her and her daughter together, crossing over at the same time.

If she knew, I know Ellen would have it no other way.

My gaze shifts to Caleb, seeing an angry young man who found shelter in his relationship with the Winchesters, who found purpose in his job. And I wonder if he has any idea how his devotion to both will be his ruin one day; how it will all end for him, bound and bloody.

But I know if he knew, Caleb would say it was worth it.

I shake my head in what feels like sympathy.

My attention drifts to Gordon, leaning against the wall across the room, and I wonder if my feeling about him is correct; if he is a snake in the grass the same way Lucifer was a serpent in the Garden.

Time will tell, but I doubt it will take long before the truth is revealed.

..._was blind, but now I see..._

I glance at the skinny guy beside me, and I smile.

I like Garth; he has a good heart and was accepting of me from the beginning, probably because he himself has always been an outsider. I am unsure how things will end for him, but I sincerely hope they end well; he deserves it.

I focus back on Dean, sensing he is worried.

He should be.

We should _all_ be.

I am still unclear on the details, but I know tonight will not go as planned.

Of that, I am sure.

We will all go out with good intentions but some will return with heavy hearts.

And it's unfortunate, because I have grown to like the Winchesters – John and Mary and Dean...and even Sam.

Out of all of them, I think Sam is the one I fear for the most; because he will not see it coming. Just as he has not seen so many other things coming for him, until it was too late.

I notice Dean is staring at the office door, and I direct my attention there as well.

In the next instant, Mary enters, followed by John, and I know the time has come.

John speaks Azazel's name as a battle cry, and it is interesting to me – but not surprising – that Gordon gives no reaction to the news that Azazel is back in town.

Because I think he already knew.

I glance around the room, but it seems no one else has noticed this detail; the rest of the team is too consumed with asking questions and listening to outlined plans to realize there is an enemy among us; a snake in the grass just waiting to tangle our feet and hold us down while Azazel delivers the fatal blow.

Gordon notices my stare and narrows his eyes in warning.

But I am not afraid.

_T'was grace that brought us safe thus far...and grace will lead us home._

Of that, I am sure.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

_**JOHN WINCHESTER**_

* * *

><p>I leave the rest of my team inside the church and walk across rain-slick asphalt, eyes scanning the street as moonlight reflects in the puddles and my breath fogs in the quickly cooling December air.<p>

If it was just a little bit colder, this drizzle would have been snow flurries.

But either way, I'm glad it's stopped for now.

Under the glare of a flickering streetlight, Mary watches my approach; sitting behind the wheel of her nondescript, government-issued black Impala – which is not nearly as badass as the '67 version I used to drive when I was younger before giving it to Dean.

As I draw nearer, I can see Mary is wearing her unreadable expression that always results whenever annoyance wars with compassion.

I brace both hands on the top of the car and stare down at her.

Mary powers down the driver's side window and sighs; fingers brushing strands of blond hair from her temple as she props her elbow on the window's frame and rests her head against her hand tiredly.

Neither of us says anything at first; because after 32 years of marriage, we know what the other is thinking – that she had been right and that I had been a dumbass.

Mary sighs again, fingers buried in the loose strands of an unraveling bun; evidence that the day has taken its toll on more than just her patience.

"Now what?" she asks me.

"I don't know," I admit disgustedly and shake my head, pissed by how royally fucked up this night has become. "I just _knew_ he would be here," I tell her, looking out into the street as if I think Azazel will suddenly materialize. "I just..._felt it_."

Mary arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by that explanation; that _that_ is all I have to explain why we've just wasted four hours of our lives. "Yeah, well..."

She lets her voice fade away, but the words are still clear.

_I told you so._

And she had.

She and Ash and that smug sonuvabitch Frank; even Bobby had had his doubts.

But I had ignored them; had insisted they were wrong and I was right – like I always do – and had managed to make an ass of myself _and_ fuck up my entire team's Christmas Eve.

Because I'm an overachiever like that.

I sigh harshly and look back at Mary.

I can tell that as my wife, she wants to comfort me; wants to offer words of encouragement to soothe the sting of being wrong about this..._again_.

But as a seasoned profiler, as a woman who has spent her entire career studying the behaviors of criminals – of knowing the science behind not only the why and how, but also the _where_ and _when_ – Mary wants to rant at what a cluster fuck this has turned out to be; at what a colossal waste of time, money, and manpower this entire operation has been.

But as she continues to stare at me from the shadowed interior of the Impala, Mary does neither – no comforting, no ranting; just a stony silence that says it all.

"Sorry I fucked up Christmas Eve," I tell her, because I think that's what she wants to hear.

Mary shrugs. "No more than usual," she assures, offering comfort with a sarcastic bite.

...which is classic Mary when she's pissed like this.

Dean is the same way.

I snort and shake my head, looking off into the street again; because Mary doesn't want my apologies, and right now, I have nothing else to offer.

There's silence between us, and I hear her sigh before she calls my name.

"What?" I answer without looking at her.

Never one to be ignored, Mary reaches out the driver's side window and grabs the edge of my Kevlar, tugging on the bullet-proof material until I finally look down at her.

"What?" I repeat, uncertain if I want to know.

Mary stares up at me, giving another tug to my vest; asking me to come closer without saying a word.

I give a small smile – because only Mary can get away with shit like that – and I crouch beside the car, resting my crossed arms on the window frame of the driver's side door.

We look at each other, face-to-face, and I see her expression softening.

"We can only do what we think is right at the time, John," she tells me. "And I know you thought this was right, coming out here tonight to this church. But John..."

Mary shakes her head, looking desperate; desperate for me to hear her, to understand.

"This has got to stop," she says to me, her voice trembling from the intensity of her emotions about this topic. "Your obsession with Azazel _has got to stop_. I don't want to live the rest of my life – and I don't want our boys to live the rest of theirs – always coming in second place on the list of your priorities."

Her words sting, like little barbs of truth. And although my first instinct is to protest – to name all the times she and the boys had come first – I know the list of such occasions would be embarrassingly short, proving my guilt.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, knowing those two words are pitifully inadequate but not knowing what else to say.

Communication has never been my strength; I'm a man of action, not of words.

Mary smiles her understanding, loving me despite my faults, and I know I don't deserve her.

"I know you're sorry," she soothes. "But sorry doesn't make things right, John. _You_ have to do that."

"I know," I assure her, hoping she can hear the sincerity in my voice. "And I will. I promise. The New Year will be different, Mary."

She nods and closes the space between us, leaning her forehead against mine. "It better be," she warns. "Or so help me, I will kick your ass."

I chuckle, brushing back the wisps of her blond hair that are tickling my face.

"I'm not joking," Mary cautions. "I may look harmless, but inside...I'm completely badass – like a ninja."

I chuckle again. "Yeah, I've seen those moves," I remind her, and she lightly smacks the back of my head before kissing my lips; absolution granted despite everything that's happened tonight.

...which is how Mary is at her core; a forgiving person, especially towards those she loves.

Sam is the same way.

Our kiss ends, and Mary sighs, pulling back.

"If we're done here, I'm going home," she tells me.

I nod. "Yeah. I'm just gonna wrap things up with the team, and then – "

" – you'll go by and see Sam?" she interrupts.

I blink. "Tonight?"

She nods.

I shake my head, feeling suddenly anxious. "I don't know. It's late."

Mary narrows her eyes, because she knows my avoidance strategies.

Dean is the same way.

"It's not _that_ late," she corrects, glancing at her watch. "It's only 10:00, and I'm sure Sam's still up. You know he doesn't go to bed until Dean gets home."

I nod, remembering all the times over the years little Sammy would sit up past his bedtime, just so he could see his big brother when Dean returned from a date or wherever Dean had been.

Sam had always said that he had just wanted to hear Dean's stories about whatever Dean had done while he was away – and I'm sure that was partly true.

But I also know that Sam had just wanted to make sure his brother was home, safe and sound; that Sam couldn't sleep until he _knew_.

It was true then; and apparently, it's still true now.

I smile, feeling unexpectedly sentimental; realizing just how much I've missed Sam over this past year.

I narrow my eyes at Mary. "Don't you get tired of being right?"

She shrugs. "Eh. You get used to it."

I chuckle. "Guess so."

Mary smiles and then turns away from me, reaching into her purse sitting beside her in the passenger seat and pulling out her cell phone.

I frown. "Who are you calling?"

"Sam."

My frown deepens. "Why?"

"To let him know you're stopping by," Mary tells me and then presses speed dial #3 on her phone while smiling at me.

Because she knows exactly what she's doing – if she calls Sam and tells him I'm coming by the apartment, then I'll be less likely to back out of actually going.

I shake my head fondly, wanting to be annoyed but finding that I'm only amused...because _damn_, I love this woman.

"You're a manipulative bitch, Mary Winchester," I tell her, even as I'm smiling.

Mary cuts her eyes at me. "Sweet talker," she replies and then looks away when Sam answers the call. "Hi, sweetie! It's Mom."

Mary pauses, and I can tell she's immediately suspicious of something not-quite-right with our youngest.

"Did I wake you?" she asks Sam and then frowns. "No? Well, you sound a little groggy. Are you okay?"

I frown as well at that question.

Because even though Sam and I have been on the outs this past year, he's still my son. I still want him to be safe and healthy and happy...even if "happy" doesn't include a job with the FBI.

Too bad it's taken me this long to realize that.

"Sam..." Mary is saying when I focus back on her, and there's a margin of alarm in her voice because apparently Sam hasn't answered her yet. "Are you okay?"

"What's wrong?" I ask her, my own heart beginning to beat a little faster at the delay of knowing; but Mary waves me off, still listening for Sam.

"You had a migraine earlier?" Mary repeats and glances at me, clearly concerned.

So am I, and I find myself leaning slightly forward into the car as if doing so will somehow include me in the conversation – even though this crouched position is killing my legs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Mary says genuinely.

And I can tell she wants to go over there and fuss over him right now; because whether he likes it or not, Sam will always be her baby.

"Did you take something?" Mary pauses. "Okay, good. That usually works for you. Do you need anything else? Do need me to come by?"

I smile because I _knew_ Mary was going to ask that.

Mary sighs, which I know means Sam politely refused her offer.

"Well, okay. But I'll tell Dean, so he – " She pauses mid-sentence as Sam has apparently interrupted her. "Oh..." She glances at me. "Dean already knows."

I snort fondly and shake my head.

Of course Dean already knows.

That's how those two boys work; one always knows what's going on with the other far sooner than either of us does.

"Well, good," Mary praises at the end of whatever explanation Sam continued to give her, and I can tell that it truly does please her that Dean has most likely already taken care of this issue; got Sam home and medicated, safe and settled before coming to meet us at the office earlier.

Mary glances at me, trying to decide if she's going to tell Sam what she originally called for in light of what he's told her. I know she doesn't want to put further stress on him if he already doesn't feel well; but she also wants this issue between us resolved.

She sighs.

"Is Jess over?" Mary asks Sam, and I can tell she's testing the waters. "Oh. Well, I'm sure she understood, sweetie. If your head hurts, your head hurts. You'll just see her tomorrow or the next day. It'll be fine."

But Mary still looks uncertain even as she's soothing Sam.

Jess isn't there, which means it's wide open and all clear for me to stop by; but Jess isn't there, which also means Sam felt bad enough that he didn't want company, not even from his girlfriend.

Mary glances at me, and I can tell her decision even before she opens her mouth.

"Well listen, sweetheart..." she begins, and I remember teasing her when Sam was first born that he would never learn his name if she didn't call him by it.

I smile at the memory.

"Things are wrapping up here at the church, and – " Mary pauses. "It's okay. I'm sure you've been a little out of it. Those migraines take a lot out of you, sweetie..."

And I know she's soothing Sam about having completely forgotten we were on a stakeout.

Mary switches her phone to her other ear.

"Yep, everybody's fine. Nothing happened, and we're all about to leave," she reports and then pauses again. "In fact, your dad is thinking about coming by the apartment on his way home, just to talk."

Mary glances at me, and I realize I'm holding my breath.

Because what if Sam refuses? What if he says that we're past talking and that I can go fuck myself for Christmas?

What then?

Mary laughs unexpectedly. "Yes, of course, Dean will be there, too. He still lives there, doesn't he?"

And that's so Sammy to ask that; to be all grown up but still want his big brother there as a backup, as a buffer.

And if I'm honest, so do I.

Because aside from Mary, Dean is the only one who can keep my stubborn ass in line; who won't take any of my bullshit and will happily kick me out on my ass if I misstep, overstep, or otherwise piss him off.

Before Sam was even born, Mary and I had told Dean – over and over – how important being a big brother was; how it was like being a superhero and how his younger sibling was going to be his responsibility to take care of and watch over and look after.

And even now, almost 30 years later, Dean still takes that lesson to heart; is still his little brother's keeper in every sense; would defend Sam against anything and anyone, including me.

So, yeah – I'm glad Dean will be there to referee this talk between me and my youngest.

That is, _if_ it happens; Sam still hasn't answered yet.

"Sam..." Mary calls, and I can tell she's a little concerned by Sam's silence. "You still there, sweetie?" She pauses, listening. "I know," she soothes, but gives no indication why.

Bet I can guess, though.

There's another stretch of silence before Mary smiles, clearly relieved.

"Good," she praises into the phone and nods at me.

I nod in return, not surprised to feel my heart thudding in my chest.

Because although I want this – I want to talk to Sam and move past all the shit that's happened over the past year – what the hell am I going to say?

"You'll think of something," Mary whispers to me, even as she's still listening to Sam on the phone.

I look at her.

"You will," she softly assures, giving me a quick wink and then turning her attention back to our youngest.

I sigh.

"Alright, sweetie," Mary says to Sam. "It'll probably be another hour at least before your dad and Dean finish up here. But I'm sure they'll call or text you when they're headed your way."

She pauses and looks at me meaningfully.

I nod, indicating that I will do as she said.

Mary nods in approval, undoubtedly congratulating herself on how well she has trained me over the years.

I smile and shake my head.

"You rest up and feel better, sweetheart. I don't want you to feel bad during Christmas tomorrow," Mary tells Sam, in that concerned, genuine tone that all mothers have mastered; the tone that makes them sound like they're talking to children, no matter how old their children actually are.

I roll my eyes good-naturedly and wonder if Mary remembers Sam's almost 30-years old.

I chuckle, deciding I won't clue her in tonight; because I discovered long ago not to fuck with my wife when she's in mother-hen mode – or to fuck with Dean, for that matter, when he's in the same mode over Sam.

I chuckle to myself again.

"Yes," Mary says in response to something Sam asked her. "Plus, you know Karen and Bobby are looking forward to seeing you. And you know Karen is making her famous butter pecan cake just for you."

I smile at the mention of that cake; the one Karen is not supposed to bring but always does; the one Mary tells Karen not to worry about making and yet includes it on the menu every year because she knows Karen will bring it anyway.

"Mmhmm," Mary hums into the phone and then smiles. "Your Aunt Karen always takes off from the hospital on Christmas Eve just so she has all day to make that cake."

I nod in agreement.

For as long as I've known her, Karen has been a nurse and has worked in the emergency room at the local hospital. She's damn good at her job, and we've always said that she's an unofficial member of the team since she's helped patch up most of us more than once when a case has gone bad, and we've landed in the ER – or even when it's unrelated to a case, like when Sam broke his arm a few years back when he fell during a Sunday afternoon backyard football game.

But as much as Karen loves her job, there are three days that she always takes off – Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and her and Bobby's anniversary.

I blink my attention back to Mary and realize she's wrapping up the call with Sam.

"Alright, Sammy, I'll talk to you later. Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Love you, too." She pauses. "And if you need anything before Dean gets home, call me. I'm not joking."

I shake my head fondly.

Mary smiles.

"I know you know," she says to Sam. "I'm just reminding you."

Mary laughs.

"Alright. Fair enough," she concedes. "Bye, sweetheart."

Mary ends the call, her smile still lingering as she looks at me.

"I love that kid," she tells me.

"Really? I didn't know," I respond dryly and then laugh when Mary playfully pushes against my arms still resting on the frame of the driver's side window.

"Shut up," Mary scolds. "You love him, too – _both_ of them. Just heaven forbid you actually say it out loud. The world might end or something."

I widen my eyes dramatically and nod. "Yes. Yes, it might. If 2012 is the last year on Earth, would you want that on my conscience?"

Mary rolls her eyes, even though she's smiling, and tosses her phone back into her purse.

"Alright," she sighs. "I'm going home. I've had enough fun for one night."

And her tone is once again that strange mix of comfort and sarcasm; letting me know that while she's forgiven me for all that's happened – or rather, _not_ happened – tonight, she's still a little pissed about it, too.

"I'm sorry," I say to her, needing to tell her at least one more time before she leaves; because I truly am sorry for so many things.

Mary shifts in the driver's seat to cup both of my cold, wind-blown cheeks with her warm, soft hands.

"I know," she assures me, looking into my eyes. "Just don't forget your promise, John. _Promise_ you won't forget your promise to reexamine your priorities and to make things right."

"I promise," I tell her instantly and lean forward to kiss her lips.

She pulls away. "Nope. No more kisses until tomorrow. I'm saving them for Christmas."

I glare playfully. "Tease."

Mary winks at me and reaches to turn the key in the ignition. "See you when you get home."

"Wait," I tell her, reaching through the window to stop her from cranking the car. "Don't be freaked out if you're being followed. I've told Gordon and Cas to go home with you and keep watch until I get there."

Mary's eyes dart to her rearview mirror to see Gordon and Cas sitting in the car parked behind her, where I had stationed them prior to this whole setup.

I had originally just planned for Gordon to stay outside – wanting an extra man on the team, just not wanting Gordon in the church with us. But Cas had overheard and had spoken up, had said he also had wanted to keep watch.

...which was a strange request coming from him, because he and Gordon had not seemed to get along before now.

But having two men on watch hadn't seemed like a bad idea, so I had agreed.

Mary's attention slowly traces back to me, and she narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"Why are they following you home?" I clarify.

She nods.

I shrug. "I would just feel better."

Mary rolls her eyes. "John, nothing is going to happen. For one thing, we have an alarm system. And for another, we have BJ."

It's my turn to roll my eyes at the mention of our docile Golden Retriever.

"What?" Mary asks, as though she's offended. "BJ is a vicious killer when provoked."

I huff a laugh. "Yeah."

And I wonder if she and I are talking about the same dog.

For years, we had resisted getting a pet; they were expensive and time-consuming and entirely too much trouble for our hectic lifestyle.

But then Sam had decided he wanted a dog and – an amazing little lawyer even then – had actually made good arguments as to why he should have one.

So on his eighth birthday that year, we had finally given Sam a fat, wiggly little ball of golden fur.

I still have no idea why he had named the puppy Bones – and Sam had never seemed interested in explaining – but that dog had quickly become like a fifth member of the family; was even registered at the vet's office as Bones Winchester.

When the original Bones had died of old age – which even now, four years later, none of us can talk about without tearing up – we had decided to get another Golden Retriever; which Sam had promptly named Bones, Jr. – or "BJ" for short.

I smile and shake my head, and then realize Mary is talking.

"John, I'll be fine. Azazel is not in town," she tells me. "I think we've proven that here tonight."

"No," I correct and shake my head. "Azazel might not be _here_, but that doesn't mean he's not in town. Just..." I sigh. "Just humor me on this, Mary."

"I think I've already humored you enough," she snaps and then looks away, staring through the windshield; the raindrops from earlier already drying, spotting the glass.

I sigh, willing myself to stay calm; because snapping back at her is going to get us nowhere.

"I know," I agree patiently. "I just...I need you to humor me one more time tonight. Please."

Mary sighs loudly, further indicating her opinion of my request.

"Mary..."

"Fine," she huffs and looks back me. "But they're not coming in the house."

I shake my head.

"No," I assure her, uncomfortable with even the mention of that. "That's not part of the plan. They're just going to follow you home and sit outside in their car until I get there. We're talking a couple hours at the most by the time we finish up here, and I swing by the boys' apartment to talk with Sam."

Mary nods. "Fine," she says again, though I can tell this arrangement is far from fine; that she hates the idea of one man she despises and another man she barely knows following her home to stand guard.

"Good," I praise, wincing as I stand; because I'm getting too old to stay crouched like that for so long.

I glance to the right, giving Gordon and Cas the signal that Mary is about to leave, and then look back at my wife.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," I assure her.

Mary nods again but says nothing as she powers up her driver's side window, cranks the Impala, and eases away from the curb; the Impala's taillights glowing red as she drives away from me.

I glance to the right again when I hear Gordon crank the car he's driving – another government-issued black Impala – and I'm a bit unnerved by the expression on his face; like he knows something I don't know.

In the next instant, he's driving past me, and my gaze shifts to Cas, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat and staring at Gordon as though he also knows the secret.

I narrow my eyes, suddenly feeling uneasy that _these_ are the two guys I'm sending to follow my wife home.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_

_**This chapter ended up being almost 8,000 words, so I decided to split it. Next chapter (the second half of this one, still in John's POV) goes up Wednesday.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**JOHN WINCHESTER**_

* * *

><p>"Hey, Boss!" someone yells across the street.<p>

And I know even before I turn around that it's Caleb.

I sigh, giving one last glance in the direction Mary just went, and then turn around.

"Caleb..." I begin, crossing back to the steps of the church. "Do you mind not yelling like a fucking maniac in the middle of the street?"

Caleb shrugs, totally unbothered. "Don't see where it matters. The stakeout's over."

I snort humorlessly. "Yeah."

"It's alright, Boss," Caleb tells me, slapping my back in a show of camaraderie. "You couldn't take the chance that fucker wouldn't show up here tonight like he said. You had to come." He pauses, seeming proud. "And the team had to come with you."

I nod – because at least somebody understands – and then smile, because I've always liked Caleb. He's a little rough around the edges and a little tough to take sometimes; but he's a good guy. He's always been loyal to my family; respectful to my wife; and great with my boys, often treating them like they were his own little brothers.

"The Padre wants to speak with you," Caleb tells me as he pulls open one of the church's double doors.

I nod again, entering the church – decorated with green garland and soft-glowing white lights and vibrant poinsettias lined along the altar –and walk up the aisle; coming to stand beside Dean as he's already talking with Jim Murphy.

"John..." Jim greets with a nod, as Caleb sidesteps around us and goes up the stairs to the sanctuary's balcony; giving it a final sweep before we leave.

"Hey, Jim," I return, feeling freshly embarrassed by how things have turned out tonight. "Sorry for disrupting your Christmas Eve service."

"Nonsense," Jim answers kindly, both his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his robe as his arms are crossed parallel across his chest. "You and your team were not a disruption at all. I doubt anyone besides me even knew you were not simply part of the congregation."

I smile graciously. "Thank you," I respond, accepting the compliment; even though I know our bullet-proof vests alone attracted more than a few curious glances.

"You're welcome," Jim replies. "But I thank you as well. I'm grateful Azazel did not show himself tonight, but I am also thankful that you and your team were here just in case he did. It means a lot, John."

I shrug, uncomfortable with praise for what I still consider a fucked-up night.

Dean glances at me and then at Jim, realizing somebody should say something. "Just doing our job, Chaplain Murphy...I mean, Pastor Murphy...or...is that right?"

Jim laughs. "How about just 'Jim'? As I've told you before, I think you've known me long enough for that to be appropriate."

Dean smiles. "Yes, sir."

There's a beat of silence.

"Well, gentlemen...it's late, and it's Christmas Eve, and I still have a few home visits to make. So, if you'll excuse me..."

I nod. "Yes, of course. We're almost done here. The team's just doing another once-over, and then we'll be clearing out, too. I'll make sure everything is locked up," I tell Jim and pat my pocket where the key is that he gave me earlier.

Jim smiles. "Sounds good. You can drop the key by the church office on Tuesday; the office is closed on Monday, due to Christmas."

I nod my understanding, hoping I don't lose the key between now and then.

Maybe I'll give it to Mary when I get home...

"Merry Christmas," Jim tells me and Dean. "And say hello to Mary and Sam and the Singers."

"Will do," I assure Jim, watching as he walks up the aisle and exits the sanctuary.

I glance at Dean, opening my mouth to speak when Caleb comes stomping down the winding staircase.

"All clear, Boss," he calls, louder than he should in a church. "Now what?"

I wait until Caleb is actually down the stairs and standing next to us to answer.

But before I can, I hear the others returning from the choir room and the baptistery and the office area in the back.

Ellen, Jo, and Garth all funnel into the sanctuary and join me, Caleb, and Dean as we stand in the middle of the aisle.

"All clear?" I ask them, already knowing the answer.

They nod, exchanging glances with each other and then focusing back on me.

There's silence, awkward and thick.

Jo sighs loudly. "Now what?" she asks, unknowingly echoing Caleb's earlier question...and Mary's.

"Yeah," Ellen chimes in, her hands on her hips. "Any other plans you have to screw up our Christmas, or was this it?"

"Lay off it, Ellen," Garth snaps, and I'm always surprised by his spunk. Ellen could snap him like a twig, and yet he's glaring at her. "John did what he thought was right."

Ellen looks unconvinced and unimpressed, but she doesn't say anything else; only crosses her arms over her chest and huffs her displeasure.

I glance at Dean and Caleb, who are both looking at me.

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Listen, I know things didn't turn out the way we thought they would tonight. And while I'm glad no civilians were hurt, that doesn't mean they won't be at some point. Just because Azazel didn't show up tonight doesn't mean he's not in town."

Jo shrugs. "Fair enough. But now what?"

"Now we go home," I tell her, tell all of them. "We go home and try to enjoy Christmas and come back to the office Monday morning ready to hunt down this crazy sonuva – "

I catch myself, realizing I'm still standing in a church – Jim Murphy's church, at that – and should probably watch my mouth.

I clear my throat.

"We hunt Azazel down," I tell my team. "We've done it before, and we'll do it again, because he's not hurting anyone else. He's not starting that killing spree crap all over again, not on my watch."

"Damn straight," Dean agrees, and I see Caleb nod enthusiastically.

There's a beat of silence.

"Good speech," Ellen tells me dryly. "And we'll get right on that Monday morning. But for now, can we just go home and try to salvage our Christmas?"

Jo nods in agreement with her mother – of course – and Garth yawns widely, fidgeting with the phone he just dug from his pocket.

I sigh. "Yeah. Go home, get some rest, and I'll see all of you on Monday."

"We're not going back to the office now?" Caleb asks, sounding confused and disappointed; because we always go back to the office as a team and debrief before heading home.

But it's Christmas, and that can wait. It's not like anything really happened here tonight to discuss.

"No," I confirm. "We'll debrief on Monday and go from there."

"Good," Ellen states flatly and then glances at her daughter. "Joanna Beth..." she calls and abruptly walks away from our group, striding up the aisle toward the church doors.

Jo's eyes widen slightly, as though she's surprised by her mother's sudden departure, and she hesitates in following; staring at Dean.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, uncertain of what's coming.

Jo smiles at him nervously. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

Dean nods. "Yeah."

...which was probably not the response Jo had hoped for, but at least Dean said something.

Jo looks at me and Caleb and Garth and then back at Dean before quickly following behind her mother.

Both Harvelle women exit the church, disappearing into the street beyond.

"Awkward," Garth says in that sing-song way in which his wife often speaks.

I chuckle. "See you Monday, Garth."

"Yes, sir," Garth replies and then gives impromptu hugs to me and Caleb and Dean on his way out. "Merry Christmas, guys!" he calls over his shoulder as the church's door closes behind him.

There's a pause.

"Dude, he doesn't know me like that," Caleb states, and Dean laughs so loudly it echoes through the rafters of the sanctuary.

"He doesn't," Caleb insists. "And you know he probably hugged Becky before he came here, and then he just hugged us..."

Caleb shudders dramatically, and I laugh at his antics.

"We'll survive," I assure him.

"Sure hope so," Caleb agrees. "After all, I've got ass to kick on Monday."

"Maybe," I allow. "We'll have to see what turns up about Azazel."

Dean nods in agreement.

"Yeah," Caleb says and then sighs, clapping mine and Dean's shoulders. "Well, fellas. It's been real. But I'm going to the house and getting drunk."

Dean frowns. "Not hooking up with Bela tonight?"

Caleb scowls. "Hell no. I'm done with that bitch."

Dean arches an eyebrow.

Caleb shakes his head disgustedly. "Caught her stealing from me two nights ago; had a couple of my Glocks, one of my Colts, and a duffel bag full of knives and other stuff."

Dean and I glance at each other, both of us resisting the urge to say the same four words to Caleb: _I told you so_.

Because we had.

Caleb had been dating Bela Talbot since Thanksgiving. He had met her at one of the local diners where she had been waitressing, and although she was good-looking and had a sexy accent, something about her had always seemed off.

Dean had checked her background, and when numerous charges of fraud and theft had turned up on her record – not to mention numerous aliases – we had wasted no time in telling Caleb.

But Caleb had dismissed it, pointing out that Bela had never been convicted of anything and telling us to "mind our fucking business".

So we did.

And now, hardly a month later, it seems Caleb has seen the proverbial light for himself.

"Stealing, huh?" I ask, not quite pulling off the shocked tone.

Dean grins, thoroughly enjoying this.

Caleb rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he growls, although there's no true heat in his tone. "Y'all were right, I was wrong...blah, blah, blah."

Dean chuckles. "Did she give everything back?"

Caleb nods. "Yeah. But I did some checking around, and she had already sold one of my rifles on eBay."

"Wow," I comment. "She moves fast."

"Yeah," Caleb agrees. "So needless to say, we're not together anymore."

Dean nods. "Where is she?"

Caleb shrugs. "Hell if I know."

"You're not pressing charges?" I ask, surprised since it's no secret how much Caleb loves his extensive weapons collection.

"Nah," Caleb replies. "She gave everything back. And I told her if I ever see her around here again, I'll sic my dogs on her. I figured that was enough."

Dean and I nod in agreement; because unlike our Golden Retriever, Caleb's mutts are definitely a threat when given the right command from their master. We've often joked and called them hellhounds, but that's actually a pretty accurate description when those dogs are pissed.

Caleb smiles. "Anyway...Merry Christmas, guys. And tell Mary and Sam I said the same. See y'all Monday."

"Bye, Caleb," me and Dean call in unison and watch as Caleb leaves the church.

There's silence once again.

"Well..." I sigh.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and we both shake our heads, continuing to stand in the middle of the aisle. "Did you call Bobby?"

"Not yet," I answer, even as I pull my phone from my pocket and press speed dial #4.

Bobby answers on the first ring.

"Hey, Bobby, it's me. Everything's good," I report and then pause as Bobby asks about Azazel. "Nope, he didn't show."

I pause again as Bobby swears in my ear.

"Yeah, I know. Trust me," I tell him. "Anyway, just wanted to let you know, so you could leave the office and go home to Karen. I know she's been worried."

Bobby agrees and then asks about tomorrow.

"Yeah," I reply. "As far as I know, everything is set for dinner tomorrow at our house."

I glance at Dean, who is nodding his agreement.

"Same time as usual," I confirm to Bobby. "And don't be late, or Dean will eat all the pie."

Dean rolls his eyes.

Bobby asks about Sam, and I pause.

Bobby asks again.

"Um, yeah...Sam should be there," I respond, hating how uncertain I sound.

Bobby catches the tone and rephrases his question.

"No, nothing like that," I assure him, when Bobby asks if Sam won't be coming because of the issues between me and him. "He's just down with a migraine right now."

I glance at Dean, who expectedly doesn't look surprised by the news; just slightly surprised that I know.

"But I'm sure Sam will be fine," I tell Bobby. "A good night's sleep and he'll be fine."

Bobby agrees, because he knows from experience as much as the rest of us. Sam's been having migraines for what feels like forever, and we all know how to deal with them and what to expect by now.

"Yeah, okay. Sounds good," I agree, when Bobby says he and Karen will see all of us tomorrow, and then we end the call.

I glance back at Dean, who has moved to lean against the end of a pew.

"Something you forgot to tell me and your mom?" I ask him as I pocket my phone.

Dean shrugs, not asking how I know now. "Didn't forget; just didn't tell you."

I nod, having expected as much. "And that's because..."

"Because I took care of it," Dean answers matter-of-factly. "Sam's fine now. Probably a little groggy – or at least he was when I talked to him a few hours ago before we came here. But he's fine."

I nod again, knowing that's all the explanation I'm going to get from Dean.

There's silence.

"Did mom go home?"

"Yeah," I respond and glance at my watch. "About half an hour ago; sent Gordon and Cas to follow her there and stay until I get home."

"Gordon and Cas," Dean repeats, his disapproval of that decision all over his face. "Why did you send them?"

"I don't know," I admit, remembering their expressions as they drove away earlier and wondering the same thing.

Dean shakes his head and pushes off the pew he's been leaning on. "Well, I'm sure Mom's fine. She can handle herself, and she's got BJ...the fearless, man-eating attack dog."

I roll my eyes.

Dean chuckles, because he knows as well as I do that our Golden Retriever would be more likely to lick someone to death than to maul them.

"Anyway..." Dean sighs. "You're heading home now, right?"

"Not yet," I correct. "Got one pit stop I need to make first."

Dean arches an eyebrow questioningly.

"Yours and Sam's place," I tell him and then hold my breath, waiting for the fallout.

Dean narrows his eyes. "Huh," he muses, his expression unreadable.

"'Huh' what?" I ask him, feeling slightly defensive.

Dean shrugs. "Nothing. Just 'bout damn time is all..."

I snort. "Yeah. Your mother agreed."

Dean nods. "Is that why? Because she _told_ you to, or because you _want_ to?"

"Well, first of all, your mom doesn't tell me what to do..."

Dean rolls his eyes, knowing a lie when he hears it.

I chuckle.

"...and second of all, I want to," I tell Dean, making sure he's looking at me. "I'm serious. All this crap has been going on for too long. I want to apologize to Sam and make things right."

Dean nods, and I can tell he's not only listening to my words but also examining my body language; seeing if the two match, if I truly mean what I'm saying.

I smile, wondering if Dean realizes his training is shining through – once an agent, always an agent.

"Good," Dean finally answers. "I'm glad."

And I can tell he is. Because it's been a long, hard year for him, too; having to live with Sam and work with me; loving both of us and not wanting to feel like he constantly had to choose sides.

"I'm sorry," I say to him, surprising myself but knowing it needs to be said to Dean as much as it needs to be said to Sam; and knowing Dean will know what I'm apologizing for without making me actually say it.

Dean nods. "Yeah."

That's all he says; all he wants me to say.

And just like that, we're good.

Too bad it won't be as quick and easy with Sam.

Dean smiles, because he knows what I'm thinking. "You'll probably have to hug or something," he warns, and his smile widens.

"Probably," I agree and then shrug. "But that's okay. Whatever it takes, you know?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, I just hope Sam's up for it. He's had kind of a rough afternoon."

I narrow my eyes, not liking the trace of concern in Dean's voice. "But he's okay, right? I mean, he said he was when your mom called a little while ago."

If Dean is surprised Mary called Sam, he doesn't say; in fact, he doesn't say anything.

"Dean..."

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I'm sure Sam's fine. He'll just be tired, which means he'll be easier to upset. And I know he's not a kid anymore, but I don't want him upset – especially on Christmas Eve and especially when he already feels like crap from that stupid migraine. So, just...say what you gotta say tonight and leave the rest for tomorrow. Got it?"

I nod my understanding; not missing the irony of me giving orders all day to Dean, but now receiving orders from him.

Some would think that was strange, but I know differently.

Because when it comes to Sam, Dean is the expert – not me; and although she comes in at a close second, not even Mary.

So, if Dean says to keep it short and sweet with Sam tonight...I'm keeping it short and sweet.

Dean holds my gaze, making sure I understand he's not dicking around about this, and then glances at his watch.

I take the hint, and we both start walking up the aisle toward the church's double doors.

"Everything secure? All the other doors and everything?" I ask, digging in my pocket for the church's key.

"Yeah," Dean assures and looks over his shoulder, giving the sanctuary one last visual sweep. "Everything looks good."

"Alright," I sigh, finally grasping the key as we approach the exit. "Let's lock up and head over to your place."

But the words have barely left my mouth before one of the church's doors swings open, revealing the last person I expected to see back here tonight.

"Mary?" I say, and I know I sound as confused as I am.

Because seriously...what the hell is she doing back here?

If I suspected her of being anywhere besides our house, it would be over at the boys' apartment, fussing over Sam.

But not here, so...

"What are you doing here?" Dean asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.

Mary doesn't answer but steps inside; her eyes never meeting ours but looking behind her.

I glance at Dean, a sense of dread crawling up my throat.

"Mary, what are you doing here?" I repeat, taking a step toward her; because something is definitely off.

Mary glances at me quickly, and I see her left cheek is red and puffy; like someone has recently slapped her..._hard_.

I'm instantly pissed.

"Mary..."

Mary shakes her head, looking upset and pissed and scared and worried.

"John, they..."

But her voice falters as he appears in the doorway just as suddenly as she did.

"I brought her."

I blink, my mind trying to catch up with what my eyes are seeing; trying to make sense of this sudden turn of events, leaving me momentarily speechless.

As for Dean...not so much.

"What the fuck is this shit?" he demands, and I know he's livid; because he's asked me the same thing in the same tone before, most recently when I didn't show up for the ceremony to appoint Sam as District Attorney.

Gordon laughs – the sound deep and deranged – and I notice a bloody scratch along his jawline and down his neck, and then another scratch on his opposite cheek.

I glance at Mary; because even though she was forced to come back, it looks like she didn't come without a fight.

_That's my girl._

"What the fuck are you doing here, Gordon?" Dean demands again, and I know my oldest is seconds away from drawing his weapon.

Gordon shrugs, pushing Mary forward with the muzzle of his Bureau-issued Glock – now outfitted with a silencer – and then coming further into the church himself.

"Just following orders," he answers casually and closes the door behind him.

"Whose orders?" I bark, because he sure as hell isn't following mine.

And where the hell is Cas? Is he in on this, too?

Gordon doesn't respond; just continues to stand behind my wife, digging his gun into Mary's back.

I glare heatedly, wishing looks could indeed kill.

"Whose orders?" I ask again.

There's a beat of silence.

"Mine."

This time the voice comes from behind; a voice I would recognize anywhere, whether it was on the phone or in the same room; whether it was six months ago, last night, or _right fucking now_.

I slowly turn to face him, so fucking pissed that I can barely breathe.

Azazel smiles as he stands at the front of the sanctuary, his own Glock – also fitted with a silencer – hanging loosely in his hand. "Howdy, John. Merry Christmas."

I scowl, feeling the burn of rage spread through my entire body. "Fuck you."

Azazel grimaces theatrically. "Such language in church," he admonishes and wags his finger at me. "You know you'll go to Hell for that."

I shrug. "Guess I'll see you there, then."

"Guess so," Azazel agrees easily and then directs his attention to Dean, who has also turned to face him. "Hi, Dean. Long time, no see."

Dean says nothing, not giving Azazel the satisfaction of a response.

Azazel chuckles and then directs his attention back to me.

I glare at him. "What are you doing here?"

Azazel scoffs. "Where else would I be? I'm a lot of things, John Boy; but a liar ain't one of 'em. I told you I was coming."

He pauses, looking around the sanctuary for effect.

"But where's everybody else?" he asks and tilts his head as though he's confused.

There's another pause.

"Oh, that's right," Azazel answers himself, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "They left."

I shake my head – because I _can't fucking believe_ this shit – and wonder how long Azazel has been watching us tonight.

He obviously saw the team leave, but did he see us arrive at the church several hours ago? Has he been watching us since then? Did he see me walk out to Mary's car earlier?

"That's too bad," Azazel continues, still talking about how the team is gone. "'Cause as it turns out, you were right. Here I am," he tells me and spreads his arms wide, indicating himself and how he's now here at this church on the night he said he would be; on the night _I_ said he would be.

And I realize – as I should have last night – that this was a trap all along; that Azazel never intended to attack the congregation at tonight's service. He only used that threat as bait to lure me here, knowing it would work; knowing I would come early and stay late; knowing me just as well as I know him; both of us setting a trap for each other.

I clench my jaw, freshly pissed at myself for being so fucking stupid, so easily played.

"Yep," Azazel says casually, walking up the aisle. "Guess it's just me and him..."

He nods toward Gordon, still standing behind me with Mary at gunpoint.

"...and you and them," Azazel finishes, pointing his gun at me and then at Dean and Mary.

Nobody says anything.

Azazel smiles. "It's so nice to have the whole family all together for the holidays, isn't it?" he asks, standing within inches of me.

I say nothing; resisting the urge to remind this smug asshole that there are four of us in my family, not three.

But I don't dare mention Sam; hoping – probably foolishly – that Azazel has forgotten about our youngest; that he'll leave Sammy out of this; that at least one Winchester will remain safe tonight.

But more realistically, there's a terrifying thought in the back of my mind that maybe that's why we were lured here tonight; so that Sam would be isolated.

I narrow my eyes at Azazel.

"Why are we here?" I ask him, not sure I want to know but _needing_ to know; needing to start formulating some kind of plan to get the hell out of here; needing to be prepared for whatever Azazel has potentially already done.

I swallow at the thought, having never considered myself a religious man but finding myself praying; praying that nothing has happened to Sam; that nothing will happen to Dean or Mary.

"You know..." Azazel begins.

And I know from the way he says those two words and tilts his head that we're about to embark on a long-winded explanation as to why we're here.

"This time of year I start asking myself what I want for Christmas," Azazel tells me, like I give a flying fuck. "What _one thing_ would make me truly happy? And you know what I decided?"

I don't respond, though I have a pretty good guess.

Azazel nods. "That's right," he praises, as though I gave him an answer. "I want to be able to do _whatever_ I want, _whenever_ I want and not have to worry about you fuckers tracking my every step. So, I decided before I start killing strangers again, I'll kill all of you first. _That_ will make me truly happy – all of you dead. _That's_ what I want for Christmas. You...and the Missus..."

He looks beyond me to Mary.

"...and your good little soldier here."

Azazel glances at Dean standing beside me.

"I want all of you dead as a fucking doornail."

Azazel laughs, as though the thought genuinely delights him, and I hear Gordon chuckle in agreement.

In my peripheral, I see Mary shift anxiously, and I glance at Dean as he does the same.

The revelation – though expected – is disturbing as hell.

But there's something even more disturbing.

Azazel has yet to mention Sam; has yet to outline how our youngest fits into his plan.

And while I would like to believe that means Azazel has forgotten about Sam, that Sam is safe...I know better.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, Azazel is one smart sonuvabitch, and he knows Sam is our weak spot.

So the question is not _if_ Sam will be involved in Azazel's plan – but how and when...and I hope with all that I am that something has not already happened to my youngest boy.

I glance at Dean, not surprised to see the same concern reflected back at me.

I sigh and refocus on Azazel, still standing within inches of me.

"So..." Azazel smiles. "What do you think of my Christmas present, John? I spoil myself, don't I?"

"You delude yourself," I correct dryly.

Azazel nods thoughtfully. "I can see why you would say that. Because right now, you think we're evenly matched – two to two...man for man, gun for gun."

And even before Azazel says anything else, I know – we've got more company.

Azazel smiles; because he knows I know.

"That's right," he confirms, his smile widening before he calls them forth with a snap of his fingers; the sound surprisingly sharp as it echoes in the sanctuary.

In the next instant, four men I've never seen before enter from the back of the church – two from each side – and come to stand around Azazel; all armed with various kinds of semi-automatic pistols outfitted with silencers and pointed straight at us.

I glance at Dean, and I can tell he's wondering the same thing I am – how the hell we ended up in such a fucking nightmare; outnumbered and trapped by the very sonuvabitch we were trying to trap.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC – Just not sure when. Since winter break is over and I'm back at school, I don't have as much time to write. Here's hoping for a Monday update...<strong>_


	7. Chapter 7

_**DEAN WINCHESTER**_

* * *

><p>"Since when do you play well with others?" Dad asks Azazel in response to the four armed men now standing at the front of the sanctuary.<p>

Azazel shrugs but gives no verbal response.

I glance at Dad and then back at Azazel, standing mere inches from us, and then at his four cronies standing behind him.

Four...plus Azazel...plus Gordon, which means we're now six to two – since Mom isn't armed, I don't count her – and our odds of getting out of here alive just took a nosedive.

_Fan...fucking...tastic._

I shake my head, freshly pissed.

Because I don't need this shit.

Not now.

Not when it's Christmas. Not when everything seems to finally be heading in the right direction with our family. Not when Dad has finally gotten his head out of his ass and has decided to apologize to Sam.

_Sam._

My heart thuds in my chest at the thought of my brother, thankful he's not here but worried that Azazel has done something to him.

Because even before Azazel's arrest and mistrial, the sick bastard has always shown entirely too much interest in my brother; would ask about Sam over the years and mention things he would only know about if he had somehow been watching the kid.

The memory creeps me out and causes my concern to climb; because Azazel apparently _has_ been in town all this time...and Sam has been alone all afternoon, all evening, all night.

And although I know Sam can handle himself – he's a Winchester, after all – I also know he's vulnerable after a migraine, especially one as intense as the one he experienced earlier this afternoon. The lingering pain usually leaves him groggy and exhausted, which would slow his reaction time and would possibly cause him not to see potential danger until it was too late.

I sigh, willing myself to get a grip; reminded of Dad's earlier comment about Mom having called Sam to tell him Dad was coming by to talk...which means Sam was fine half an hour ago.

But we were all fine half an hour ago – Mom on her way home, Dad and I wrapping things up like any other stakeout.

And now we're all in a royally fucked-up situation.

What if the same could be said for Sam?

For all I know, my brother could be bleeding out in the middle of our living room right now while our apartment is engulfed in flames.

That would certainly be Azazel's style.

What if...

I swallow, refusing to let my mind go there.

Because Sam's fine. He's most likely dozing on the couch, waiting for me to get home and for Dad to stop by; having no clue we're going to be a little longer in getting there than we originally planned...if we get there at all.

_Stop it_, I growl at myself, hating it when I get all melodramatic like a little bitch.

Because we're getting out of here – me and Dad and Mom.

We're getting out of this church alive; and Dad is going to apologize to Sam; and Sam is going to accept; and we're all going to spend Christmas together – happy and healthy and _safe_ – because after the year we've had, we fucking deserve it.

I nod slightly to myself.

Because there's no fucking way I'm letting a deranged asshole like Azazel Lehne take my family from me.

I smile, freshly determined to take this fucker out – out of our lives and out of this world.

Azazel notices my expression. "Something on your mind, Dean?"

I shrug. "Just thinking about how I'm gonna kill your psycho ass."

Dad glances at me, and I can tell he's making sure I'm not about to draw my gun.

And I'm not.

Not yet.

"Kill me, huh?" Azazel muses and then chuckles, leaning against the end of the same pew I had leaned against earlier. "That's adorable."

I say nothing, knowing he just wants to get a rise out of me.

I continue to stare at Azazel and wonder how the hell he got in here through the back of the church and we not notice.

"I'm like the wind," Azazel reports, seemingly random, but I know he's responding to my thought; he's always done creepy shit like that. "I'm like the fucking wind," he continues and smiles. "I can go wherever I want." He pauses. "And I mean, _wherever_."

And the way Azazel looks at me when he says that, my mind instantly flashes to mine and Sam's apartment; to the very real possibility of Sammy being injured and bleeding and unconscious; to my brother needing me while I'm trapped here.

I shake my head in refusal, in denial, in warning. "No."

Azazel's smile widens. "Yes," he responds and then glances at Dad, pulling him into the conversation. "Had to swing by the ol' homestead, John."

I blink, realizing "wherever" applied to Mom and Dad's house – at least for now – and that Azazel was trying to fuck with my mind, as usual.

I sigh, feeling a small wave of relief.

Because even though it sucks that Mom has been dragged into this, I know she would agree _that_ scenario – her being kidnapped from her own house – was better than the alternate one running on a constant loop in my mind...the one involving something bad happening to Sam at the hands of this sick sonuvabitch.

Dad glares at Azazel, seeming to ignore whatever taunt Azazel thought he was delivering with that information – that they had been to the house – because it's old news. We know they've been by the house, because Mom is here; standing behind us with Gordon's gun pressed against her back.

An agent's job is to take what he knows and fill in the blanks; to find out the details that will bring the entire picture into focus and will lead to a plan of action, a plan to get us the hell out of here.

Dad glances behind us, checking on Mom, and then looks back at Azazel. "Where's Cas?"

I nod, because I've been wondering the same.

"Ah, Cas..." Azazel shakes his head in mock sadness. "Some agents take their job entirely too seriously."

Dad arches an eyebrow. "Meaning?" he asks, although we both know what's been implied.

"He shot him," Mom reports from behind us, and I can hear the lingering shock in her voice. "He had a silencer on his gun, and he shot him."

I glance at Dad and then at the guns pointed at us, because they _all_ have silencers; which means tonight has been planned to the last detail.

A silencer – most likely acquired on the black market, since they're illegal – would have made the shot into Cas barely more than a whisper, which means neighbors would have had no reason to suspect there was trouble right next door...and which is probably why all of the guns aimed at us right now are similarly outfitted; so when they shoot us no one will hear.

I shake my head, because _no fucking way_ is that happening.

I've been shot before, and it fucking sucked; I'm _not_ getting shot again.

Not tonight.

And sure as hell not by Azazel or Gordon or any of these other fuckers – and neither is my family.

"Killed him, actually," Gordon corrects, still talking about what happened to Cas, and I know by the pride in his tone that he was the one to do it.

Azazel nods wisely. "Headshots will do it every time."

"Not every time," Dad comments, and I know he's talking about Bobby.

I feel a brief flutter of hope that maybe Cas was as lucky, that maybe we haven't lost a member of our team – but I doubt it.

Because Gordon would've made sure Cas was dead before leaving him behind.

I just wonder how it all went down, how Gordon had gotten the drop on Cas.

Because you wouldn't know it to look at him – sloppy tie and trench coat, scrawny and quiet, more likely to look _through_ you than to look _at_ you with that vacant, faraway expression – but Cas was fucking _lethal_.

I had seen him during drills and on the shooting range, and Cas always knew what was coming; was never startled; never missed his mark or his target.

So, what the fuck happened tonight?

Had he and Gordon still been in the car, and Gordon had just shot him at close range?

Or if they had actually made it up to the house – or into the house – had Cas been killed trying to interfere, to save Mom?

Or what if Cas had been shot because he wasn't going along with the original plan? What if he had been involved in Mom's kidnapping – just another mole following Azazel's orders – and then had decided to back out at the last minute?

There were too many variations of how Cas could've been shot, but the end result was the same – he was dead now.

Poor bastard.

I was actually beginning to like him.

I sigh, glancing at Dad as he speaks.

"What do you want, Azazel?"

It's a routine question – one of the first questions generally asked when negotiations begin. But it's also one we already know the answer to because Azazel has plainly – and gleefully – told us; he wants to kill us.

My initial response to that would be to kill him first – and I have no words to describe how much I want that; but how the hell are we going to pull that off when we're outnumbered and outgunned?

I glance at the front of the sanctuary where the four other men have continued to stand this entire time, motionless and eerily silent; their weapons still drawn and still pointed at us; their expressions unreadable.

It feels like I'm looking at a literal firing squad, and while it's unnerving, it's also pissing me off. Because no way in hell am I going to be gunned down; not tonight; not on Christmas Eve in a church with my parents while my little brother is still unaccounted for.

I swallow against the anxiety that returns at the thought of Sam; wondering if while Gordon was taking care of things with Cas and Mom, Azazel was over at the apartment, taking care of things with Sam.

My hand curls into a fist at the thought; because if Azazel has touched one fucking hair on Sam's head...

"What do you want?" Dad is asking again, and I try to put Sam out of my mind – which is nearly impossible – and focus on what's happening here and now.

Azazel looks amused. "I've already told you," he reminds Dad.

Dad stares at Azazel.

Azazel chuckles. "Oh, I see..." he comments. "You think there's something else."

It's Dad's turn to remind. "There's always something else with you."

Azazel shrugs indifferently even as a strange smile curls one corner of his mouth. "You'll see soon enough," he tells us. "But while we're waiting..."

Azazel pauses for effect – that smile still on his face – and my stomach knots.

He glances at Gordon still standing behind us with mom, and I know I'm not going to like whatever he says next.

Azazel's gaze shifts from Gordon to me to Dad. "I want your guns," he says simply. "I want them on the floor, and I want them now."

I blink, and I can tell just by the way Dad shifts beside me that he had not expected that demand, either.

...which is stupid of us.

_Of course_ Azazel wants our guns. Even though we haven't drawn them, he knows we have them; knows we're just waiting for the opportunity to use them.

"Our guns..." Dad repeats, clearly stalling, and exchanges glances with me. "Since when do you care about guns? I thought knives were your weapon of choice."

Azazel shrugs. "Things change."

Dad nods. "Guess they do," he agrees but neither of us makes a move to surrender our weapons.

Azazel narrows his eyes, recognizing our attempt to delay giving him what he wants – our firearms – and motions to Gordon standing behind us.

In the next instant, Mom is brought forth.

And I know – and can tell by the expression on Dad's face that he also knows – this situation is about to deteriorate fast.

Because for whatever reason Azazel brought Mom here, her primary purpose is to serve as a means of controlling us; of making Dad and me do exactly what he wants.

_Fuck._

Azazel smiles sweetly at Mom as Gordon pushes her down the aisle towards him. "Hi, Mary," he greets her, draping his arm across Mom's shoulders and nodding to Gordon to return to his position behind us.

Mom says nothing; doesn't even glance at Azazel to acknowledge he spoke.

Her hair is no longer swept up in the bun she usually wears to work but is hanging in limp strands around her face, partially obscuring her left cheek where Gordon had struck her prior to coming here.

And for that – and for so many other things – Gordon is a fucking dead man.

I'm just not sure yet how we're going to pull that off.

But it's going to happen – him and Azazel and the other four fuckers stupid enough to partner with them; all dead before this night ends.

Azazel smiles again at Mom and sweeps her hair away from her face. "You're beautiful," he tells her, and I can sense Dad's about to make a move. "But you've always been beautiful." He buries his face into Mom's neck and inhales deeply. "You smell good, too."

"That's enough," Dad barks and takes a step forward, unable to bear seeing the man he hates the most touch the woman he loves the most. "Get your fucking hands off of her."

But Dad doesn't make it two steps before Azazel is pushing the muzzle of his Glock under Mom's chin. "Shut the fuck up and stand the fuck down," he orders Dad. "Or I might get jumpy, and your wife might not be so pretty anymore."

Dad freezes.

Mom swallows, the gun's muzzle actually moving against her skin with the motion, and her eyes lock with Dad's.

If she's scared, she doesn't show it. Her only expression is one of pleading for Dad to do as he's told; not for her sake, but for his. Because she doesn't want to see her husband blown away any more than Dad wants to see the same fate fall on his wife.

There's a beat of silence.

"That's better," Azazel praises in response to Dad halting his steps. "Now...I want your guns. And I mean I want them _right fucking now..._real nice and slow." He digs the muzzle of his Glock into Mom's throat. "And I want 'em in five...four..."

Azazel's countdown – delivered in quick succession – only serves to add urgency to an already tense situation.

"Three..."

_Fuck. _

I feel like screaming it.

Because although I know we have no other choice – not with a proven killer holding my mom at gunpoint – I don't want to surrender our guns. Because if we do that...then what? How the fuck are we going to get out of this situation without ending up in body bags?

"Two..."

"Fine," Dad says quickly, and I can tell this is just as hard for him as it is for me.

Azazel says nothing.

Dad glances at me, giving silent orders, and I nod.

Not taking my eyes off Azazel, I slowly reach for my sidearm and see that Dad is doing the same as we both place our government-issued Glocks on the floor at Azazel's feet as though they're offerings.

Azazel nods his approval but doesn't remove his gun from Mom's throat.

Gordon comes from behind us and gathers our two guns from the floor; keeping mine for himself and giving Dad's to another black guy at the front of the sanctuary, who shoves it in the waistline of his jeans.

"Okay..." Dad begins but stops as Azazel shakes his head.

"I'm not as stupid as I look," he tells us.

"Good for you," I quip before I can stop myself.

Azazel smirks and motions towards us with his gun before ramming it back under Mom's chin. "Let's have the backups, too."

I glance at Dad.

He glances at me.

When we hesitate, Azazel jerks the gun away from Mom's neck and cracks the butt of it over her cheek.

Mom gasps and cries out in pain, her hand automatically covering the place she was struck as she slumps slightly against Azazel.

On instinct, Dad and I both take a step forward; because _no fucking way_ is this sonuvabitch getting away with that.

But then Mom speaks.

"Stop," she says, her voice quiet but still loud enough to make us halt.

Mom pushes away from Azazel and straightens to her full height, removing her hand from her cheek; allowing us to see the beginnings of a horrific bruise.

Dad's expression hardens. "Mary..."

Mom shakes her head. "I'm okay."

Dad's jaw clenches at the brave lie. "Mary..."

"No, John." Mom shakes her head, discouraging Dad from whatever he has on his mind. "Just do what he says." She looks at me, making sure I'm listening too. "Please."

I lock eyes with her, wondering if she knows what she's asking us to do; wondering if she knows that if we do what Azazel says, we'll likely be left with nothing, except December 24, 2011, etched on all of our gravestones.

A silent conversation passes between us, and I know that she knows.

Mom knows what she's asking, but she also knows what I'm just beginning to realize, to admit – that right now, we have no other choice.

And that fucking sucks.

I glance at Dad, and he shakes his head slightly.

Because he's realized the same thing I just did – that Mom is right.

"I'm waiting," Azazel reminds us and resumes digging the muzzle of his gun into Mom's throat.

I sigh and look at Dad, receiving his nod as we both simultaneously crouch and bend to remove our backups from our ankle holsters.

Gordon once again steps forward to collect, distributing the newly acquired weapons to the other men at the front of the sanctuary.

And then there is silence.

"Happy?" Dad asks, his tone icy.

"No," Azazel answers simply and then leans closer to Mom as though he's confiding in her. "I blame it on my childhood." He pauses. "But you know all about that, don't you?"

Mom says nothing, although his statement is true.

Being a profiler, Mom knows everything there is to know about Azazel; we all do. In fact, I can't even remember a time when Azazel was not Dad's favorite conversation topic.

And yet everything we know wasn't enough to keep us from ending up here in this fucked-up situation.

"Okay, Azazel," Dad says, and I can tell his annoyance – like mine – is growing by the second. "You wanted our guns; you've got 'em."

Dad shrugs as he says the words, as though that detail – that we're now unarmed – doesn't bother him.

There's silence as Azazel just stares at us; his arm still wrapped around Mom's shoulders, holding her close while continuing to point the gun under her chin.

"Now what?" Dad asks casually, keeping up the appearance of being completely unfazed; just as all agents are trained to do, no matter the circumstances.

Azazel doesn't hesitate to respond; he's thought about this.

"Now I want your Kevlar, your radios, and your cell phones," he tells us. "Take 'em off and put 'em on the floor."

"What?" Dad asks sharply,

"Why?" I add, glancing at Dad and then back at Azazel.

Azazel rolls his eyes at the obvious questions. "Because if I want to shoot you, I can," he explains, as though he's talking to idiots. "And if you want to call for help or backup, you can't."

Dad and I look at each other, silently weighing our options...like we have any.

As if to remind us who's running this show, Azazel digs the Glock's muzzle deeper into Mom's neck.

Mom makes a sound of discomfort, and I can tell by her expression that she's getting more and more pissed at having that gun held on her, at being used to control me and Dad.

"Don't make me ask again," Azazel warns, anger making his tone deeper and his eyes flash a peculiar color; the irises almost yellow under the dim lighting in the church's sanctuary.

It's creepy as hell and momentarily distracting. Because in all the times I've seen Azazel over the years, I've never noticed that happening before; his fucking eyes changing color like that.

I glance at Dad, who is staring at Mom and hasn't seemed to notice.

"Fine," Dad says and looks at me, nodding once.

I clench my jaw – because I _fucking hate this_ – but nod in return, indicating I understand Dad's order.

Moving in tandem – a trait we've developed from years of working together – Dad and I remove our jackets, along with the requested items...our bullet-proof vests, our radios, our cell phones.

Azazel nods his approval. "Good," he praises smugly and then glances at Gordon.

And it's the look that passes between them that galls me to the core; because this – _all_ of this – is going just as they had planned.

Gordon nods at Azazel and then steps forward, gleefully stomping on our phones; grinding them beneath the heel of his boot.

When he's done, Gordon turns his attention to our radios; snatching them from the floor and hurling them toward the altar.

The four men still dutifully standing at the front of the sanctuary barely blink and merely step aside as the radios smash into the massive communion table and shatter on impact, bits of black plastic flying in all directions.

Azazel laughs and shoves Mom into the nearest pew. "Don't try anything," he warns her and then steps forward to grab my Kevlar from where I placed it on the floor.

Strapping it on, Azazel then tosses Dad's vest to Gordon, who does likewise; strapping the bullet-proof material across his chest.

I glance to the front of the sanctuary to judge the other gunmen's reactions. But if they're bothered by Azazel's choice of who ranks a vest – just himself and Gordon – they don't show it.

In fact, they don't seem to show much of anything; having said nothing and having worn the same blank expression since first appearing when Azazel had called them forth earlier.

I narrow my eyes as I continue to stare at them, vaguely wondering if Azazel is somehow controlling them, through blackmail or drugs or some other source of power.

It's an interesting theory, not that I have time to dwell on it.

Because in the next instant, Azazel is in front of me and Dad.

Dad lifts his chin, a classic sign of defiance.

Azazel laughs, sounding truly amused. "John, John, John..." he says, shaking his head. "You know you can't win this time."

Dad says nothing; only looks beyond Azazel to check on Mom.

Mom is still turned awkwardly in the pew she's sitting in, staring straight back at us; her eyes wide and pleading; begging Dad not to do anything we'll all regret.

But our options, it seems, are dwindling fast. We're quickly approaching the "now or never" deadline in this situation.

There's silence.

"Alright, fellas," Azazel says, his gaze flickering between me and Dad. "Now comes my favorite part."

I swallow, a mix of emotions spreading through my chest...anger, dread, fear.

I glance at Dad. But if he shares any of those feelings, he doesn't show it; and his unwavering badassery – if that's even a word – fortifies the same in me.

Because we've faced situations like this before; where it seems like there's no fucking way we're getting out alive...and yet we do.

I nod to myself, the movement so slight that I doubt anyone noticed.

I feel a wave of calm pass over me, replacing my anxiety with Winchester determination as I remind myself that I have a favorite part in all of this, too – the part where we kill these fuckers; every single one of them...including the creepy children-of-the-corn standing up front.

I smile, attracting Azazel's attention.

"Something funny, Dean?" he asks me.

I shrug.

Azazel narrows his eyes in annoyance. "Fine," he allows and then smiles himself. "We all have secrets."

And the way he says that, the way he looks at me, I'm instantly reminded of my earlier worry about Sam.

I clench my jaw and glance at Dad, who looks as concerned as I feel, and I wonder if he's also been thinking about the potential threat to Sam.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dad demands, making Azazel laugh.

"You'll find out soon enough," Azazel replies coyly and glances at Gordon.

Gordon smirks.

"Now..." Azazel sighs. "Enough of this crap. I'm bored."

"Then leave," I tell him.

Azazel laughs again. "Not yet," he responds and glances at his watch. "But while we're waiting, turn around and get on the floor...facedown."

"Like hell we will," Dad snaps, his eyes flashing in barely contained anger.

Azazel arches an eyebrow but says nothing; instead turning away from us and crossing back to where Mom is sitting in one of the pews.

Mom watches him approach; her left cheek still red from where Gordon had struck her; her right cheek swollen and bruised from where Azazel had done the same.

And yet she stares unflinchingly at Azazel as he draws nearer; lifting her chin defiantly much like Dad had done a few minutes ago.

Azazel stops beside the pew and chuckles, staring down at her. "Winchesters..." he comments and shakes his head.

...which only makes Mom lift her chin higher.

But then without warning, Azazel twists his fingers in Mom's long, blond hair and snatches her head back.

Mom gasps, grasping the back of the pew in front of her to steady herself as she's jerked backwards and held there by Azazel; her head awkwardly angled as her face points toward the church's ceiling.

I feel my hands clench into fists as rage moves through me like a barn on fire, quick and consuming.

But Dad reacts first, lunging forward only to be stopped by Gordon's gun in his face.

There's silence; nothing but Dad's harsh breathing.

Azazel cocks his gun and places it next to Mom's temple. "Do it," he tells us, and we don't have to ask for clarification.

Because we know what he wants; he's already told us – he wants us face down on the floor, powerless and completely submissive.

"_Do. It._"

The words are growled this time, and the implication is clear – that Azazel is done dicking around about this; that if we don't do as he says, he'll kill Mom...just like Dad killed Meg.

Dad's jaw is clenched impossibly tight, but he is the first to make a move; because he can't risk anything happening to Mom.

And Azazel knows that.

Reluctantly I follow Dad's lead, turning around to face the church's entrance – those massive double doors – and then slowly easing down until I'm lying in the aisle next to my dad; feeling the amulet press into my chest; wondering if Sam is okay; _praying that Sam is okay_.

"Good," Azazel praises, clearly pleased with himself, and I hope he's let go of Mom's hair. "Now, was that so hard?"

Yes, actually. It was one of the hardest fucking things I've ever had to do.

"Gordon..." Azazel says, and I know that Azazel has given an order as Gordon comes to stand beside me, his gun hovering over my head...or rather, _my_ gun.

There's a pause.

"Jake..." Azazel calls, and I hear movement at the front of the sanctuary.

Seconds later, I glance up to see one of the other men – the young black one Gordon had given Dad's gun to – approaching and standing beside Dad, assuming the same stance as Gordon.

I stare at Dad, mere inches from me on the green-carpeted floor.

Dad shakes his head, seething at the fact that we're now both being held at gunpoint by our own guns.

I know exactly how he feels.

I sigh in the silence, and I'm about to ask Azazel just what the hell he plans to do next when I hear it – a car door slam outside.

My attention darts to Dad who, by the expression on his face, also heard it. And I instinctively know that our thought is the same...that maybe someone from the team came back.

If Azazel or Gordon or anyone else heard the car door slam, they've made no comment about it, and I sure as hell am not mentioning it.

Lying on the floor, I stare at the crack beneath the church's door and watch as a lone shadow ascends the steps, wondering who the hell would come back alone.

Garth would be home with Becky by now.

Ellen was pissed about having to come here once tonight; she sure as hell wouldn't come back.

And she wouldn't have allowed Jo to return, either.

Bobby was probably with Karen, and Cas was dead.

So...maybe Caleb?

I squint at the shadow, thinking it looks too long – too tall – to be Caleb and hoping it wasn't Jim coming back for something he forgot.

Because we sure as hell didn't need a complication like that to compound an already fucked-up situation.

But if it was Jim, he would probably enter from the rear of the church where his office is, so the person approaching the other side of those double doors is likely Caleb...for whatever reason.

I glance at Dad, seeing that he suspects the same, and I'm startled by how excited I suddenly feel; because if it's Caleb, then we might have a chance at ending this whole fucking nightmare right now.

We just have to alert Caleb to what's going on in here before he busts in on a dangerous situation.

I glance again at Dad, and he nods.

But at that moment, the person's cell phone rings.

I hold my breath, knowing there's no way in hell Azazel and his crew could've missed that; but yet still no one says anything.

I narrow my eyes, immediately suspicious.

Because maybe it's not Caleb...or Garth or Ellen or Jo or Bobby or Jim and sure as hell not Cas; maybe it's somebody Azazel is expecting, another one of his cronies to seal this already fucked-up deal.

_We all have secrets_, he told us just seconds ago, and maybe this is it.

Maybe whoever is on the church steps is Azazel's secret; the person he's been waiting for this entire time.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

The cell phone rings again on the steps of the church.

The approaching shadow stops – just inches from the door – and that's when I hear it...his voice, a voice I would know anywhere.

"Sam..."

It's Mom who gasps my brother's name, her horror and shock clearly displayed in that one syllable.

"No," Mom pleads.

And although Dad and I are still turned away from her, are still on the floor with our backs to her, I know she's frantically shaking her head at the realization of this, our worst nightmare of all.

Because Sam is not supposed to be here.

_He's not supposed to fucking be here._

"What the fuck is he doing here?" I hiss and cut my eyes at Dad.

But Dad doesn't have a chance to answer.

"I called him," Azazel reports cheerfully from behind us. "Well...texted him, actually."

Dad and I exchange glances – because _what_ did he just say?

I push off the floor, sitting up and turning around so fast it momentarily makes me dizzy. "You're lying."

But the expression on Azazel's face tells me he isn't.

Outside on the steps, Sam continues his phone conversation; his voice quiet, his words mumbled...both classic signs of Sammy fatigue and pain.

I glance over my shoulder toward the church's doors, picturing my brother's pinched expression; knowing how much it physically cost Sam to drive over here, enduring the overly-loud sounds of traffic and overly-bright headlights and streetlights.

I clench my jaw as the sound of Sam's tired voice continues to filter through the closed doors. Because after the migraine Sam experienced this afternoon, he should be home resting; not driving 20 minutes across town to an ambush.

Dad sits up next to me and faces Azazel; neither of us caring that Gordon and Jake are still holding guns on us.

"Sam wouldn't come here," Dad says, staring at Azazel. "And he sure as hell wouldn't come because you told him to. Sam's smarter than that."

And he is.

If Azazel had called Sam, Sam would've called Bobby or Caleb; would've assembled the team to come back, not come by himself on some kamikaze mission – especially since the last Sam had heard, we were finished here; I was coming home, and Dad was coming to talk.

"You're right," Azazel agrees and then smiles, the expression making my stomach twist even tighter than before.

"Then why is he here?" Mom demands, her knuckles white as she grips the back of the pew she's sitting on; an outward display of the anxiety threatening to overwhelm her.

Azazel glances at Mom, then at me, and then stares at Dad. "Because he thinks Daddy told him to come."

Dad narrows his eyes. "What?"

Azazel nods. "It's amazing what you can do with technology these days," he comments. "Call people from untraceable, nonexistent numbers...listen to other people's conversations...then hijack other numbers that already belong to someone but connect that number to your phone, so you can – "

"Pretend to be that person," Dad finishes, and I can tell that although he's pissed, he's also terrified.

Because Sam is about to walk through those church doors and straight into a trap, all because he thought Dad had told him to come...which would explain a lot.

Azazel smiles and pulls his cell phone from his pocket, the screen illuminating with a push of a button. "Sam, change of plans," he reads from the text he sent to my brother posing as Dad. "Won't be able to stop by apartment but still want to talk. Come to Jim's church."

"You sonuvabitch," Mom hisses, glaring at Azazel, and I know it's taking every ounce of her self-control not to lunge at him in retaliation for luring our youngest here.

I glance at Mom, wondering vaguely if after all the silent pleading she's done with me and Dad over the past half hour not to do anything impulsive, if she's going to be the one to ultimately do just that.

"Sam, of course, wanted to know why," Azazel tells us, still talking about the supposedly changed plans, and shakes his head fondly before continuing to read. "Will explain when you get here." He pauses, glancing at us. "And now he's here."

Outside on the steps, Sam laughs hoarsely, still talking to whoever is on his phone; not realizing the joke is on him; on all of us.

Azazel smiles at the sound and stares at Dad. "It's amazing how loyal Sam is to you, even after that whole messy mistrial thing."

Dad says nothing, but I know he's wondering – like I am – how Azazel knows about the rift that event had caused in our family.

"I hear things," Azazel tells us cryptically, once again doing that creepy answering-without-being-asked thing that he does. "And from what I hear, you've been quite the dick, John. Not that I'm surprised." He pauses and shakes his head. "Poor Sammy-Sam-Sam..."

And the way Azazel says that makes my heart thud in my chest.

"He deserves better," Azazel tells us, glancing at the doors behind us as though he can see Sam on the steps. "Deserves to die knowing all is forgiven, instead of dying thinking Daddy hates him."

"No!" Mom shouts, her voice panicked as she stands.

Azazel chuckles and swings his gun to point at Mom again, even though his gaze remains on me and Dad. "Relax, sweetheart," he attempts to soothe her. "Sam's always been my favorite. No offense, Dean." He winks at me. "So, that's why he gets to die first."

Mom's face drains of color.

Azazel shakes his head. "So, don't be dramatic, Mary. It'll be fine," he assures Mom. "Your Sammy won't be alive long enough to feel any pain."

I glance at Dad...because _holy fucking shit_.

Outside, totally oblivious to what awaits him, Sam is wrapping up his conversation; his words still unclear, but I know that tone; the one Sam uses when he's trying to get off the phone.

Azazel apparently recognizes the tone, too – which is unnerving in itself – and glances over his shoulder toward the front of the sanctuary.

"Alright, fellas," he calls quietly. "Showtime."

The three gunmen move forward, assuming their positions; their silenced, semi-automatic pistols aimed straight at the church's double doors.

Beside me, Dad shifts as though he's about to stand, and I feel myself preparing to do the same.

Because even if Gordon and Jake are still pointing our guns at our heads, even if we're surrounded by crazy-ass fuckers all armed and twitchy, there's no way in hell I'm going to literally sit on my ass while my kid brother walks into a hail of bullets.

Dad cuts his eyes toward Azazel, and I nod ever-so-slightly and glance at Gordon.

We'll take them first, and then – if we're still alive – we'll worry about the other four.

It's an impulsive, shitty plan...but it's all we've got.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	8. Chapter 8

_**SAM WINCHESTER**_

* * *

><p>I love Jess.<p>

I really do.

I love how she's equal parts smart and smartass; how she's sweet but feisty; how she's just as likely to cry with you as she is to verbally bitch slap you.

I love how her blond hair feels against my skin when we kiss; how she scrunches her nose when she smiles; how she looks at me with those blue eyes like I'm the only person in her world.

I love how she talks to Mom like Mom is _her_ Mom; how she calls Dean on his bullshit even as she's rolling her eyes and laughing at his lame jokes; how she's polite to Dad but fiercely protective of me when it comes to him...especially since the whole mess with Azazel.

I love how she can make me laugh, even when I don't want to; how she makes good arguments, even when I don't want to hear them; how her and her English-major-self rephrases sentences just to prove they don't have to end with a preposition – _off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck. _

I smile at the unexpected memory of her saying that a couple nights ago to Dean about...something. And Dean had laughed and had officially adopted the phrase as his new favorite.

In fact, he had said it to me just this morning when I had bitched about his leftovers in the fridge that were beginning to literally grow hair.

"Sam..." Dean had drawled around a mouthful of microwaved waffles.

And I had known just by his tone what was coming.

"Off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck," I had said with him, and Dean had nodded in approval and agreement while syrup had dripped off the end of his fork as he had stabbed another chunk of waffle and had stared at it thoughtfully.

And I had known just by his expression what was coming next.

"In the morning, I'm makin' waffles!" Dean had declared, doing his Donkey impression from _Shrek_ before smiling at me and cramming the once frozen waffle into his mouth.

I had rolled my eyes, partly because Dean had expected me to; but now that I think about it – and I'm not sure why I'm thinking about it – Dean's actually pretty good at that impression.

I sigh, willing myself to focus on whatever Jess is saying over the phone, and I vaguely wonder how much trouble I would get myself in if I used the rephrased "fuck off" on her right now.

Because seriously – I love her, and I know she means well – but I am _not_ in the mood for this conversation, and off is definitely the direction in which I wish she would fuck.

I shake my head – kind of surprised and slightly ashamed of myself for thinking that – and then wince as pain flares behind my eyes, remembering why I'm so cranky and unfocused; because my head _hurts_.

And while I've had headaches of varying degrees most of my life, the migraine that hit me earlier this afternoon was like nothing I've ever experienced – sudden, excruciating, _blinding_ pain paired with distorted sounds and disjointed images...like I was watching a projected movie flashed through a narrow tunnel.

I remember seeing the colors and hearing the voices, but I couldn't decipher the "who" or the "where" or the "what the hell is going on?"

There was just pain and confusion and a vague sense of urgency.

If Dean hadn't been with me, hadn't been right there, I honestly don't know what I would've done; would probably still be sprawled in the middle of that sidewalk.

But Dean _was_ right there – was _always right there_ – and even though he had played it off like he usually does, I could tell I had freaked him out.

Not that I could blame him.

I had freaked _myself_ out.

I had literally been on the couch all afternoon trying to recover; and when I wasn't sleeping, I was counting the never-ending pulses of pain in my temples to distract myself from the slowly increasing urge to throw up.

Even now I swallow on reflex at the memory because although the nausea has decreased, it hasn't vanished. The drive over here had been rough, and the flickering streetlight to my left is not helping.

I swallow again and turn away from the light; turning my back to the street and facing the church's double doors as I half-listen to whatever Jess is saying in my ear; annoyed by how distracted and disconnected I feel.

It's not like it's unusual for migraines to kick my ass; there was always lingering pain and fatigue whenever one hit – but never this bad.

And never coupled with images; with images so vivid they seemed real; with images that didn't fade with time but only sharpened into focus.

Like that streak of blood – _bright, fresh blood_ – smeared on that strangely familiar door.

What the hell was that about?

Why is _that_ image – out of all the jumbled images I saw during...whatever that was earlier this afternoon – the only image that I can still remember with perfect clarity?

And why do I see it – _and only it_ – every time I close my eyes?

As if to test myself, I sigh and do just that – close my eyes – and then startle when the image flashes again.

Like it has over and over throughout the afternoon.

Blood smeared on a door.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision; but then realize that while my eyes are now open, I'm still seeing that door; not the blood this time, just the door.

The door of Jim Murphy's church...which happens to look _just like _the door painted with the blood; the door from my vision...or whatever...that I've seen over and over and over all afternoon.

And suddenly I feel like throwing up for a whole different reason.

A cold chill washes over me, and I turn back to face the street so fast that I stumble on the steps; thankfully catching myself against the railing and then leaning there, needing the support.

Because I don't know what it means, but I know – _I fucking know_ – that the door behind me is the door I've seen streaked with blood.

"Sam?"

I startle at the sound of Jess's voice in my ear and try to focus as she asks me if I'm listening to her.

Guess it was obvious that I wasn't.

"Yeah," I answer automatically, and then there's silence on the opposite end of the line.

Despite my fear and panic at what I've just realized, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch in a smile as I picture Jess standing barefoot in her tiny apartment kitchen with her cell phone pressed to her ear; her blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail; her too-long, pink pajama bottoms rolled up around her ankles and yet still scuffing the beige linoleum as she walks a tight circle, trying to figure me out; trying to figure out what's going on, what I'm not telling her.

"For a lawyer, you suck at lying," Jess finally tells me, more amused than annoyed.

I chuckle, hearing the underlying concern in her voice, and duck my head; gently massaging the bridge of my nose; my thumb and forefinger slowly moving out over my sinuses and then up my temples and over my eyes; hoping external pressure will somehow lessen internal pain.

It doesn't.

My head still _hurts_.

If I was five-years old, I would probably whine it in that high-pitched, drawn-out way kids do that never fails to get the point across.

Because seriously – _it hurts_.

I think it hurts worse now than it did a few minutes ago; almost like a fresh migraine is coming to double whammy me, and I'm overwhelmed by how much I suddenly want Dean.

I glance across the street; my eyes squinting against the harsh streetlights but still able to see the unmistakable silhouette of the Impala – Dean's '67 version parked along the curb in front of Dad's Bureau-issued, newer version – and I feel marginally comforted.

But the pain is still there; still increasing with each breath, each heartbeat; still coming for me like a freight train rumbling down its track.

My hand is cramping from how hard I'm gripping the stairs' railing, and I feel myself going down; a kind of controlled collapse where the next thing I know, I'm sitting on my ass on the steps of Jim's church; my knees drawn up to my chest; my right arm across my knees; my forehead on my arm; and my phone still miraculously clutched in my left hand and held to my ear.

"How bad?" Jess asks me quietly, and I wonder if she's asking because she just knows me that well or because I actually said something or made some sound of distress.

I honestly can't remember; can only focus on the all-consuming pain building in my head.

"Sam..." Jess calls. "How bad?"

"How bad what?" I stubbornly grind out, my tone sharp as the pain spikes.

I hear Jess sigh in patient exasperation a second before I hear her bony elbows clunk on the kitchen counter as she leans against it. "How bad does your head hurt?"

But she doesn't give me time to answer, her tone immediately switching to pissed as she's freshly riled by the current situation.

"Bad enough that you probably shouldn't have driven across town?" Jess asks me.

My fingers dig into my knee, bunching the worn denim of my jeans.

Because it's coming.

I can feel it.

Just like this afternoon...

"Bad enough that you should probably still be home resting?" Jess continues.

I press my forehead into my arm; my grip reflexively tightening around my phone.

It's almost here.

"Bad enough that you should probably have told your dad that his change of plans sucked..."

My eyes want to squeeze shut, but I fight the urge.

Because I don't want to see that door again.

If I wanted to see it, all I had to do was turn around and look.

But I don't want to see it.

_I don't want to see it._

"...and that if he wanted to talk, then he could bring his chatty ass over to your apartment just like he said he would? Does it..."

But Jess's voice fades, swept away as the rush of blood roars in my ears.

And that's how I know it's here.

Sound is the first to go; then sight.

As if to prove it, my eyes slam shut; squeezing in on themselves against the blinding pain.

And that's when I finally see it – the door and the blood.

_Again._

Then a reflection of yellow; a flash of fire and light; a muted blast of sound followed by an echoing scream; dark wood, green carpet, blood-stained flesh...and then back to the door.

The door streaked with blood.

Then a whispered, strangely familiar voice...

_And they shall take some of the blood and smear it on the sides and top of the doorframes...and the blood on your doorposts will serve as a sign, marking the houses where you are staying. When I see the blood, I will pass over you. This plague of death will not touch you when I strike..._

The last sentence is repeated – as though the voice wants me to understand, to remember that part – and in the next instant, I'm released from the migraine's...vision's...whatever's hold.

I gasp harshly and become aware of Jess's frantic voice calling my name over and over.

I try to tell her I'm okay, but I only succeed in making some sound that's between a gasp and a moan.

"Oh my god..." Jess replies to my strangled attempt at talking. "Sam!"

There's silence on the line as she listens for me and as I try to pull myself together enough to actually form words this time.

"M'okay," I tell her, the words slurred but at least coherent; my voice muffled since my forehead is still resting on my arm and my face is still pressed into the fabric of my brown hooded coat.

"Like hell you are!" Jess corrects, and I can hear her swiftly moving around, like she's rushing through her apartment.

I sigh, feeling the intense pain in my head begin to ease into the familiar aching pulse behind my eyes, across my forehead, in my temples. "Jess..."

"Shh...it's okay, baby," she tells me. "It's okay. Okay? Just breathe through it and sit tight. I'm coming."

...which would explain why it sounds like she's rushing around her apartment.

"Jess..." I sigh again, slowly lifting my head; squinting against the constant glare of the streetlights. "You don't have to come. I'm fine."

Jess doesn't answer, but I hear her zip her coat.

"Jess..." I try again and cough hoarsely, propping my right elbow on my knee; the fingers of my right hand gently pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm serious. I'm fine now."

"Good," Jess replies, clearly not convinced, and I hear her snatch her keys from where they hang by the door. "I'm still coming."

"Jess, no."

And I hate how borderline whiny I sound about it.

I sigh – annoyed with myself and how crappy I feel – and close my eyes, seeing nothing.

Sweet, blissful nothing.

Huh.

"Sam..." Jess is saying through the phone, and I open my eyes. "I don't know what just happened. But I do know you're in pain and in no shape to talk to your dad right now. And you're in no shape to drive, either."

I remain silent, because I can't argue those two points – and Jess knows it.

"So, I'm coming to get you and take you home," she tells me over the squeaky hinge of her front door as she opens it. "And then we're going to find Dean and tell him to get his ass home, so he can – "

"Wait," I interrupt her. "What do you mean 'find Dean'? He's here."

I hear Jess stop walking; can picture her standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside her apartment in front of her car.

"He is?"

I frown at the confusion in her voice and then wince as pain flares in my head from the expression.

I glance across the street.

"The Impala is here," I inform Jess and know she'll draw the same conclusion everyone else does – where the Impala is, Dean is.

"Huh," Jess muses, and I hear her jingle her keys as she thinks. "Well, while you were..."

She pauses, like she's not quite sure how to label what happened with me just a few minutes ago.

"While you were...out," she finishes, and I can picture her shrugging at the inadequacy of that description. "I stayed on the line with you, of course, but also tried calling Dean from the house phone. And he didn't answer."

I smile, unexpectedly touched that Jess not only knew exactly who I needed – who I _wanted_ – during my migraine attack, but also tried to actually get him for me.

"Sam..." Jess calls, and I can hear the concern beginning to return.

"Yeah," I answer, still sitting on the church steps and pushing my sweaty bangs off my forehead. "I heard you. You tried to call Dean, but he didn't pick up."

"Yeah," she confirms. "So..."

"I don't know," I tell her, carefully leaning my temple against the cold metal railing of the steps; trying to ease the ache in my head while cooling off, suddenly hot and exhausted.

Jess must have heard the change in my tone. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"Mmhmm," I respond distractedly. "Just tired.

"I know," Jess soothes, and I can hear her walking again. "That's why I'm coming to get you."

"No," I tell her again and make myself sit up straighter, as though doing so will force more strength into my voice. "Seriously, Jess. I'm not sure why Dean isn't answering his phone – he didn't answer when I called on the way over here, either – but I'm sure he's fine. He usually puts his phone on silent during stakeouts, and he and Dad are probably just talking or whatever, and he hasn't realized yet that it's still on silent."

"Hmm..." Jess hums, and I know she's not sure if she buys that explanation. "Well, whenever he finally gets his messages, he's going to have a freak out voicemail from me."

I chuckle, because I can just imagine.

"It's not funny, Sam," Jess snaps, and I can tell I really scared her earlier. "I could hear you breathing and making this horrible strangled, gasping sound, but you weren't answering me and it just..." She pauses. "Never do that again."

I snort. "It's like I can control it, Jess," I remind her. "Migraines aren't fun for me, either."

"I know," Jess agrees. "And I don't mean to bitch, but..."

"I know," I soothe. "I scared you, and I'm sorry. And if it helps, I kinda scared myself." I chuckle self-consciously. "But I'm fine now. Tired and my head still hurts, but overall fine. Promise."

There's a beat of silence.

"Okay," Jess finally concedes. "But how are you getting home?"

I glance back at the '67 Impala.

"Dean."

I know Jess expected that answer and seems satisfied with it; because seriously...who better to take care of me than Dean, right?

I smile tiredly, thinking Dean and Mom and even Dad would agree.

"Sounds good," Jess praises and then sighs, like maybe she's finally beginning to calm down. "Just call me when you get home. Or have Dean call me. And don't try to talk to your dad tonight, okay? It can wait 'til tomorrow."

"Yeah," I answer and think I should really start the process of standing up now.

"I'm serious, Sam."

"I know you are, Jess," I assure her, reaching for the railing and carefully pulling myself to my feet; closing my eyes – and thankfully still seeing nothing – as I wait for the expected dizziness to pass.

"And if whatever reason, Dean's not there or it doesn't work out for him to take you home right now...call me, and I'll come get you. I'm serious."

I smile, always amused when Jess feels the need to add "I'm serious" to the end of everything she says. That's how I know she's truly worked up over something.

"I know," I patiently assure her again and test opening my eyes.

But the streetlights are still overly bright to me, so I once again turn my back on them; careful not to look at the church door, either.

Because I'm not ready to deal with that yet; with the door and the blood and the whole jumbled up mess of sights and sounds.

And if Jess knew, I would definitely never get off the phone.

"Alright," Jess is saying, and I can hear her front door squeak again as she goes back inside her apartment. "I'm giving you half an hour or so to get home and call me. If I don't hear anything from you or Dean by then, I'm calling you back. And I ain't gonna be happy about it, Mister..." she warns playfully, but I know she's... "I'm serious."

I smile again.

Yep.

I knew she was.

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," I return cheekily even as I feel myself slightly shaking; my left hand still gripping the railing, holding myself steady on the steps.

Jess unzips her coat. "Alright, smartass," she laughs lightly over the phone. "If you're sure you're okay, I'll let you go. Just go find Dean and get home, okay? And you better tell him what happened, too."

"I will," I promise Jess, although I know I won't have to say a word to Dean; he'll take one look at me and just know.

My only concern is that Dad won't realize anything is wrong and will try to push the issue of talking about everything – about Azazel and the mistrial and everything that happened after – when I truly don't feel like it tonight.

That conversation – whenever we finally have it – is going to be draining on so many levels that I honestly don't think I can endure it after already being drained by two of the worst migraines I've ever had.

Dad will probably be pissed if I put him off until tomorrow, but it can't be helped.

And maybe he'll see that.

I know my bangs are sweaty; I can feel them sticking to my forehead. And I'm sure I'm pale and generally look as crappy as I feel.

Maybe Dad will surprise me and realize on his own that hashing out the mess of this past year is beyond my ability tonight.

And if he can't come to that realization on his own, then there's always Dean...

I smile, knowing Dad is Dad – but even Dad doesn't stand a chance against Dean when my big brother is in his overprotective mode with me. And that mode is bound to kick into high gear as soon as I walk through those church doors pale, sweaty, and exhausted.

"Sam..." Jess calls.

I blink, reminded that I'm still on the phone with her. "Yeah."

"Did you just zone out again?"

I laugh hoarsely. "I think I did," I answer honestly. "But not like before. I'm okay."

Jess sighs loudly. "You're worrying me, Sam. Seriously."

I rub my forehead. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Jess gently admonishes. "I know you can't help it, but just...go find Dean and get your ass home, okay?"

I nod and then scrunch my nose at the pain that flares in my head. "Okay."

"And then call me. Remember, half an hour..."

"Yeah."

There's a pause.

Jess sighs, obviously reluctant to get off the phone even though she knows she needs to let me go so I can go inside the church.

"Okay. Well...I'll talk to you again soon," she tells me. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I return and then end the call, turning my phone to silent before closing it and slipping it in my right coat pocket.

Because my left coat pocket has the gun; the one Dean had given me on my birthday last year and then had made me take the concealed weapons course to get my license to carry it. The one I rarely shoot and even more rarely carry but for some reason dug out from under my socks in the dresser drawer before leaving the apartment tonight. The one I forgot about until just now and feel freshly silly for bringing it.

I quirk a smile, still unsure why I brought the gun and deciding I'll keep the fact that I have it to myself. Because I can just imagine the "emo-chick" teasing I would have to endure from Dean if he found out I was finally packing heat only because I had a feeling about it.

_A really strong feeling. _

And speaking of feelings...

I sigh, continuing to stand motionless on the steps for a few more minutes; feeling an unexplainable sense of dread slowly crawl up my throat; a feeling that only increases as I slowly turn to face the church's double doors.

I know without a doubt one of these doors is the one I've seen throughout the afternoon every time I closed my eyes; the one I saw just minutes ago when another migraine hit; the one streaked with blood in the midst of erupting chaos.

But what does that mean?

That something bad is going to happen inside the church?

That's ridiculous.

The only people waiting for me are Dad and Dean, and while I admit that I've been stressed about having to talk with Dad, that doesn't explain the degree to which I feel threatened as I continue to stare the doors.

Well...as I continue to stare at the _right_ door.

Because that's the one.

The image I've been seeing is reversed – because apparently whatever happens to stain the door red happens inside, not outside – but that's definitely the door that ends up with blood smeared across it.

I snort and shake my head slightly; wanting to be amused by how seriously I'm taking this stupid vision thing...but only feeling the constant pulse of pain in my head and the resulting dread and fear and panic sitting heavy in my stomach.

I swallow against the returning nausea, and I suddenly feel alarmingly hot and lightheaded as sweat beads along my top lip.

I swallow again and make a conscious effort to breathe deeply; unzipping my coat and fanning either side of it; feeling the weight of my phone and my gun in the coat pockets as I rapidly move the canvas material back and forth, encouraging the cold December night air to swirl around my body while telling myself to get a grip.

Because my day has already been shitty enough without me throwing up and passing out at the top of Jim Murphy's church steps all because I think I've seen something that's not even real, that's not going to happen.

Blood on the inside of the door I'm currently staring at?

Yeah, right.

Where does my mind get this crap?

I have a better chance of Azazel showing up to wish me a Merry Christmas than I do of that vision...or whatever...coming true.

Because people don't have visions; they only have overactive imaginations fueled by stress and pain and exhaustion that paint crazy pictures in an attempt to freak the hell out of them.

I swallow once more, feeling my heart slow its pace; shivering at the cooling, drying sweat on my skin and dropping either side of my coat to plough both hands through my damp hair and down the back of my neck.

"Okay..." I say to myself quietly, a one word pep talk as my hands are still clasped behind my neck; my elbows framing my face as I continue to stare at the right door, the door I'm about to enter.

To further stall, I glance at my watch, surprised that it's stopped.

Huh.

That's weird, especially since I just put a new battery in it a few weeks ago.

I sigh.

Whatever.

It was around 10:30 when I left the apartment, so it must be close to 11:00 now.

In another hour or so, it'll be Christmas Day.

And me and Dean will go over to Mom and Dad's and spend the day with them and BJ and Uncle Bobby and Aunt Karen and Jess, when she stops by on her way to her parents' house.

And we'll have ham and mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and Aunt Karen's cake and Mom's pie.

And Dad and Dean will pretend they're not feeding BJ under the table, and Mom will pretend not to notice otherwise.

And Uncle Bobby and Aunt Karen will get hilariously competitive as they bowl against each other on the Wii in the living room, while dodging BJ's attempts to "help" them.

And we'll open gifts while tolerating Mom's endless photo-taking.

And we'll smile, and we'll laugh, and we'll enjoy our day, dammit.

All I have to do is go in this church, tell Dad we'll talk later, find Dean, go home, call Jess, go to sleep, and hope that tomorrow is better than today.

Because after the day I've had, I deserve it.

And because after the year we've all had, we all deserve it.

We deserve to be happy, especially at Christmas.

And we deserve a fresh start, which is what we'll get after Dad and I talk tomorrow.

I smile at the idea and feel strangely calm just thinking about it – just thinking about everything being okay again.

"Alright..." I sigh, reminding myself that this – going in the church – is going to be fine; that despite what I think I've seen...I'm wrong.

There is no blood.

There's only a door.

And everything is going to be fine.

Just fine.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_

_Scripture – Exodus 12:7; 12:13_


	9. Chapter 9

_**DEAN WINCHESTER**_

* * *

><p>Something's wrong.<p>

Something besides me and Dad sitting on the floor of Jim Murphy's church on Christmas Eve being held at gunpoint by crazy-ass Gordon Walker and some dickhead named Jake.

Something besides Azazel's arm draped casually over Mom's shoulders as they both now stand back in the aisle of the sanctuary; he once again holding her close to his side like he did when he had first called her forth half an hour ago; the muzzle of his gun firmly against Mom's neck.

Something besides three unnervingly quiet, stupidly obedient assholes aiming their guns at the church's double doors, patiently waiting for their target to appear; for _Sam_ to appear.

I swallow at the fresh realization of what their plan is – to literally gun down my little brother as soon as Sammy comes through those doors.

And while that scares the shit out of me, it's not my primary concern right now.

Because something else is wrong.

_Really_ wrong.

I've always had a sixth sense when it comes to Sam.

And right now, that sixth sense is going fucking crazy.

Because while I could hear Sam talking a few minutes ago – quiet and unclear, but definitely talking – now I hear nothing.

And his shadow has also moved away from the door.

So that means...what?

I narrow my eyes and then close them; lack of sight instantly sharpening my other senses.

And that's when I hear it.

Just beyond the door, like maybe Sam is further down the steps now; a strangled gasp, quick and barely perceptible...but most definitely there.

My eyes snap open in instant recognition.

Because I've heard that sound from my brother before.

I heard it earlier today while I was sprawled with him in the middle of a crowded sidewalk this afternoon; me holding on to Sam just as desperately as Sam was holding on to me.

I definitely know that sound.

And I know what it means.

"Shit," I hiss under my breath and can feel Dad glance at me.

I shake my head, because this is beyond description.

Dad knows that Sam has migraines, and he knows that Sam had a bad one this afternoon.

But Dad wasn't _there_.

Dad didn't see how Sam had just collapsed in a heap on that sidewalk; how the kid had totally checked out from this reality for several minutes and how disoriented Sam had been when he had finally come back; how Sam had blinked at me and had slurred my name.

Dad knows that Sam is usually tired after a migraine, but he doesn't know how I had physically supported the kid all the way back to the Impala and then had done the same to get him into our apartment.

I feel my heart beat faster as more silence fills the air, and I'm struck with a momentary flash of panic.

Because what if Sam has collapsed like he did earlier this afternoon – _and I wasn't there to catch him_ – so he fell down the church steps?

What if Sam is bleeding and unconscious on the other side of those doors?

What if he broke something when he fell or – god forbid – hit his head?

I shift restlessly from where I'm sitting on the floor, unsure of how much longer I'll be able to control myself from going to check on my brother.

"Don't fucking move," Gordon warns me, jabbing his gun – really _my gun_ – in the back of my head for emphasis.

Mom makes a startled sound in the same instant anger flashes in Dad's eyes.

And if I didn't have other things to worry about right now – like Sam and my parents, like all of us getting out of here alive – I would kick Gordon's fucking ass for doing that.

And Gordon knows it, too.

I can feel him staring at me from behind, waiting for some kind of reaction.

But I don't give him one.

Because timing is everything.

And it's not time to handle Gordon Walker.

Not yet.

I clench my jaw, reminding myself that Gordon's turn is coming; sooner than he even knows.

I guaran-fuckin'-tee it.

But first, I have to make sure Sam is okay; and that if he is okay, he _stays_ okay.

Because while I'm a damn good FBI agent, that's not my job.

Keeping Sammy safe is my job; my primary responsibility since the first day I found out I was going to be a big brother.

_Take care of Sam. Watch out for Sam. _

That's been my mantra for the past 28 years, and I sure as hell am not fucking it up tonight.

As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to that kid.

Period.

I sigh, glancing at Dad and then blinking as I realize that Dad now suspects something is wrong outside, too. I can see it in his narrowed eyes and in the way he's tilting his head toward the door but staring at me.

I nod – the movement so slight that I doubt anyone else saw it – and confirm Dad's suspicions.

Dad glances at the door and then back at me, frowning and silently asking me so much more than I can answer with just body language and facial expressions.

I hold his gaze but shake my head.

Dad's frown deepens.

"What the fuck is taking so long?" Gordon demands, turning to look over his shoulder at Azazel.

Azazel quirks a smile, clearly amused by Gordon's frustration. "Patience, grasshopper."

Gordon scowls. "Fuck you, Azazel," he returns. "This shit's not a game to me."

"Me, neither," Dad adds, saying what I'm thinking as he continues to sit across from me on the green-carpeted floor; the soles of our boots almost touching as our legs stretch out in front of us. "Azazel – "

"Shut the fuck up, old man," Jake snaps before Dad can say anymore and does to Dad as Gordon did to me earlier, jabbing his gun – _Dad's gun_ – in the back of Dad's head.

Mom makes the same startled sound as she did before when I was on the receiving end of that rough gesture, and I hear Azazel chuckle.

Dad's jaw clenches, and I know it's taking all of his self-control not to react – _yet._

"Easy, Jake," Azazel advises and chuckles again; then glances at Dad. "You were saying, John..."

But Mom speaks before Dad even opens his mouth.

"Don't hurt him," she begs, staring straight at Azazel; their faces mere inches apart.

And even though Mom doesn't clarify which "him" she's referring to, I know she's not talking about me or Dad; she's talking about Sam.

"Please," Mom continues desperately. "Please don't hurt him."

Azazel tilts his head. "Now, Mary..." he says, his tone mockingly placating. "You know that's not how this deal works."

Mom shakes her head. "What deal?"

Azazel arches an eyebrow. "You don't remember?"

Dad glances at me.

I shrug, just as confused as he is.

"What the hell are you talking about, Azazel?" Dad snaps; his hands braced against the floor as though he's about to stand.

Azazel glances at Dad and then back at Mom.

There's silence.

"Nothing," Azazel finally replies.

But the way he says it – and the way he looks at Mom when he says it – makes my stomach twist.

"Another time, another place..." Azazel comments to himself, and I swear this guy couldn't get any creepier if he tried.

Mom glances at me, looking as confused and unnerved as I feel, and then glances at Dad.

Dad stares back at her, his eyes narrowed; clearly trying to figure out just what the hell is going on, what Azazel is talking about.

There's more silence.

I sigh and turn my attention back to the church's double doors, hearing a dog bark somewhere down the street and being reminded of BJ; unexpectedly wondering if Gordon killed him, too; if our dog is dead alongside Cas somewhere back at Mom and Dad's house.

The thought makes me freshly pissed.

Because on my list of things people shouldn't fuck with, "family" and "dog" are in the top five.

I sigh again and continue to stare at the church's doors.

But there's still no sign of Sam; no familiar voice filtering through the massive slabs of oak and no ridiculously long shadow slipping beneath the doors' crack.

Gordon sighs harshly behind me, and I can tell that he's staring at the doors, too. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Maybe he knows something's up," Jake answers from behind Dad, also staring at the doors and looking more anxious by the second. "Maybe _he fucking knows_, and we're the ones fucking screwed."

"How would he know?" Gordon challenges.

Jake shrugs.

"Sounds like paranoid bullshit to me," Gordon declares.

And although I hate to side with Gordon, I'm inclined to agree.

Because while Jake's paranoid bullshit is a nice thought – that Sam somehow knows our situation in here and is rallying the proverbial troops to come rescue us – I know that's not the reason Sam hasn't come through those doors yet.

I wish it was.

But Sam's most likely...

"He does know," Azazel suddenly informs us, and Dad and I look at each other before looking at him.

"What?" Mom asks, also looking at Azazel.

Azazel smiles. "Sam knows. He just doesn't _know _he knows. Not yet. But he'll know soon enough that he knows. That he's known all this time..."

Mom shakes her head. "That makes no sense."

"Makes perfect sense," Azazel corrects. "If you know what I know..."

"Thank you, Riddler," I quip before I can stop myself, because _Jesus..._sometimes I think Azazel talks just to hear the sound of his own voice.

Azazel chuckles and then looks at Mom. "Tell you what..."

Dad and I exchange glances. This should be interesting.

"I'm feeling generous, it being Christmas and all..." Azazel tells Mom, his arm still draped over her shoulders; the muzzle of his gun still pressed against her neck. "So what if instead of killing or even wounding your darling little Sammy, I spare him?"

I see a spark of hope flash in Mom's eyes even though she says nothing.

Azazel nods, because apparently he saw it, too. "That's right," he assures her. "Sam goes right on living and breathing. All you have to do is – "

"No," Dad interrupts, glaring heatedly at Azazel.

Azazel arches an eyebrow. "No?" he repeats, shifting his attention to Dad. "Why, John...are you saying you prefer your Sammy choking on his own blood?"

My jaw clenches at that – because _no fucking way in hell_ is that happening.

Dad's eyes narrow even more. "I'm saying generosity with strings is not generosity – it's a deal."

Azazel shrugs. "Fine," he concedes easily and then looks back at Mom, knowing she's still listening to him. "Care to make one, Mary?"

"No," Dad growls again and is about to say more when he's interrupted – by Sam's voice.

A flood of emotion swells in my chest – concern, relief, dread – and I'm instantly refocused on the church's doors, turning my head so fast I'm momentarily dizzy.

I listen intently; my ears feeling like they're literally straining in their effort to hear Sam say something again.

But he doesn't.

Instead, his shadow suddenly appears underneath the doors; his dark silhouette slipping through the bottom crack and stretching across the green carpet until it's almost touching mine and Dad's outstretched legs.

And in that moment, I feel strangely sad.

Because Sam is literally so close – _he's right there_ – and yet so far away.

And I know we're not going to be able to stop this.

I glance at Dad, seeing the same realization reflected back at me, and then look at Mom.

Mom's gaze flickers between me and Dad, wide-eyed and panicked.

I swallow, feeling my heart pound in my chest as my body practically vibrates with a rush of adrenaline combined with that familiar feeling I always get whenever Sam is threatened; a feeling that I will _fucking kill_ anything or anyone that tries to hurt that kid.

Because while Sam is a strong, capable adult; he's also my little brother.

And whether Sam likes it or not, part of me will always view him that way...especially when I know he's vulnerable, as he's sure to be when he walks into this church. Not just because of the ambush waiting for him, but because of what I know he's suffered through over the past few minutes.

I sigh and look back at the doors, remembering the migraine Sam endured earlier this afternoon and somehow knowing the one that just literally put him on his ass on those steps outside was even worse.

I narrow my eyes at the floor, noticing how Sam's shadow seems to slightly shake, which means _Sam_ is shaking; which means my little brother is a mess – a sweaty, pale, exhausted, nauseous, can-hardly-see-straight-from-the-intense-lingering-pain mess.

I sigh again, freshly worried and pissed at this entire situation.

Because in his current condition, Sam's ability to focus and react is going to be shitty at best and nonexistent at worst, meaning his chances of getting hit by a flying bullet just doubled, if not tripled.

_Fan...fucking...tastic._

I clench my jaw against the surge of frustration and anger just as Jake seems to notice what I've known – and Mom and Dad have known – for the past two minutes.

"He's back," Jake needlessly reports.

"I can see that," Azazel comments, looking at Sam's shadow on the floor and his tone implying he knows Sam never really left.

Azazel glances at Gordon, Jake, and the others.

"Remember the plan," he instructs. "I know you're eager, as am I. But remember to wait..."

All five of them nod their understanding.

And just like that, the entire feel of the room changes.

I look at Dad, both of us wondering what the fuck that means...just what they're supposed to wait for – which means _we _have to wait for – and how that will affect our plan.

Are we listening for a word...watching for a nod...a wink, a blink..._what_?

Sam's shadow once again moves on the floor.

The other three gunmen – the ever-present silent observers in all of this –take a step forward, readjusting their stance and their aim at the church's doors.

I watch Jake track Sam's movement underneath the doors' crack and then shift behind Dad in anticipation for whatever is about to happen.

I feel Gordon do likewise behind me; both preparing to launch themselves at Sam as soon as my brother opens one of those doors.

"Oh my god..." Mom whispers, as though her words are weighed down with fear and dread as she shifts anxiously beside Azazel.

Because this is it.

I glance at Dad, both of us staring at each other – because we can't risk nodding, not now – and confirming that we understand our general plan; he takes Jake, then Azazel while I take Gordon...and then we both handle the other three.

"Don't hurt him," Mom desperately begs Azazel again, and her voice trembles with threatening tears. "Please, _please..._don't hurt him."

Azazel shakes his head sadly even as he smiles at her. "Too late."

"No..." Mom pleads, frantically looking between the door and Azazel. "No. _Please._ Please, don't hurt him. Don't hurt him. Don't hurt him. Don't – "

"Shhh..." Azazel's arm wraps further around Mom's shoulders as he slides his hand over her mouth, attempting to silence her but only muffling her words.

Mom squirms in his grasp becoming more and more frantic as Jake and Gordon both fully turn toward the door.

"Nooooo!" Mom yells, not because I can hear the actual word around Azazel's hand but because I know that panicked, pleading inflection.

"It's all going to be okay, Mary," Azazel calmly assures her, leaning his head against hers and slowly rubbing the muzzle of his gun up and down Mom's neck in a threatening gesture that he undoubtedly thinks is soothing.

Mom attempts to jerk away, but Azazel's grip is too tight.

Azazel barely blinks, completely unfazed by Mom's escalating hysterics. "It'll all be over soon," he continues to soothe her in an oddly calm voice; gun stroking her neck as he begins to hum.

And although I'm completely focused on the church's double doors, I can't help but hear – and recognize – the tune.

_...it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah. _

I glance over my shoulder as Azazel takes a breath and then resumes his humming.

_Hallelujah...hallelujah..._

I glance at Mom, something twisting in my chest when I realize she's no longer struggling within Azazel's hold but is just standing there beside him, resigned and defeated; her eyes closed, squeezed tight against what she doesn't want to see; silent tears slipping through her lashes and down her cheeks.

..._hallelujah...hallelujah..._

I turn back to face the church's double doors; wondering which one Sam will enter as I brace my hands on either side of myself in order to jump to my feet the instant Sam appears, and I can see Dad preparing for the same.

In the background, Azazel continues his soft, maniacal humming.

But I still hear the click of the latch the second Sam pushes against the door – the _right_ door.

And then time seems to stand still.

The moment feels both frozen and amplified – Sam's movement abnormally slow, sounds abnormally loud – as the church door swings wide, and Sam comes clearly into view.

But he doesn't see us.

Sam's body is still turned toward the street as he looks back at his car – a practical, fuel-efficient Honda; holding his keys out in front of him while he pushes one of the buttons on the keychain remote, making sure he locked the doors.

As the horn honks once to confirm the car's security, Sam pockets his keys in his jeans and then turns to face us.

But he stops mid-stride when he's greeted with the scene in the sanctuary.

The door closes behind Sam while his pained, squinted expression quickly changes to startled, then confused as he tries to make sense of what he's seeing – me and Dad on the floor; Gordon, Jake, and three others pointing guns at him; and Azazel standing in the middle of the aisle with Mom at gunpoint.

There's silence – even Azazel has finally stopped humming – and I feel myself holding my breath...because now what?

I expected Sam to walk into a hail of bullets; and yet there's complete silence and absolute stillness as he stares at us...and we all stare right back at him.

I hear Sam swallow as his eyes dart to me, questioning and instantly afraid for what all of this means.

I hold Sam's gaze, offering what comfort I can as he stands motionless in front of those massive church doors, and then give him a visual once-over; because as I expected, the kid looks like shit.

Sam is pale, and his damp bangs are sticking to his forehead. His brown hooded jacket is unzipped – despite what I know must be freezing temperatures outside by now – and I feel an extra measure of concern when I see he's changed clothes since I last saw him and is now wearing his grey Stanford hoodie; a classic sign of Sammy feeling like crap.

And now, after having endured yet another migraine a few minutes ago – because I _know_ that's what happened on those steps – the kid is undoubtedly feeling even crappier

As if to confirm it, Sam winces; closing his eyes and rubbing the heel of his hand across his forehead and down his temple before ignoring Dad and even the guns pointed in his direction and looking back at me.

Dad shifts beside me, and I watch as Sam reluctantly breaks eye contact with me and looks at him; then at Gordon and Jake and the others; his analytical mind trying to sort and connect, to figure out just what the hell is going on here.

Sam's gaze finally rests on Azazel and Mom standing behind us, and I can tell that out of all the pieces to this puzzle, this one confuses him the most.

Because the last time Sam talked with Mom, she was heading home; and the last time Sam saw Azazel, he was walking out of jail.

And now...

"Hi, Sam," Azazel calls, sounding genuinely happy to see my brother. "Surprise!"

And although I expect more talking, more taunting, more psychological foreplay, apparently _that_ was what we were all waiting for...that word...like we're at a fucking birthday party.

Because in the next instant, the sanctuary explodes with movement and sound.

I shout a warning at Sam – I don't even remember what I say – and then I'm pushing to my feet and turning, plowing into Gordon behind me.

Gordon's eyes widen as he realizes what I'm doing. "What the fu – "

I hear the breath rush out of him as we fall back, and his head cracks against the floor.

Dazed, Gordon drops his gun – _my gun_ – and I grab it and ram my knee into his Kevlar-padded chest, appreciating the opportunity to finally release some of my aggression...and also thankful that although there's a lot of guns being fired, there's not a lot of bullets hitting their marks.

Because as I suspected, these guys can't aim worth shit.

I smile to myself and then slam the butt of my gun over Gordon's head, making sure he's unconscious before pushing off the floor again.

I'll finish him later.

Right now, all I can think about is Sam.

I turn to find my brother.

But in my periphery, I see that Dad is now on his feet, too – having done to Jake what I did to Gordon – and has his gun back and is already moving toward the front of the sanctuary.

Dad fires a shot and drops one of the nameless three gunmen in his approach to Azazel.

I feel a brief wave of accomplishment – _three down, three to go_ – but it's short-lived as I turn to face the church's doors.

Because what the fuck is Sam doing?

"Sam!" I shout at him. "Down!"

Sam blinks and looks at me.

But instead of dropping – like he's supposed to – Sam shakes his head and continues to struggle with something in his coat pocket.

I growl my frustration – because seriously...what the fuck is he doing? – and begin moving in Sam's direction, intending to bodily put my little brother on his ass to wait this out.

And then after this is over and we're all safe, I'm going to have a serious fucking talk with him about doing as he's fucking told.

_Jesus..._

But as I'm moving, I hear Sam yell my name and then point behind me.

I turn to my right, just in time to see a groggy but freshly pissed Gordon back on his feet and raising another gun toward me; the gun he had before he had taken mine earlier.

I snort as Gordon advances in my direction.

"No fucking way," I tell him in response to his obvious plan to shoot me, and then I do what I've been planning to do for the past hour – kill his crazy ass.

An expression of shock crosses Gordon's face as he realizes what's about to happen, and he fires a shot at me half a second after I've already fired mine.

Gordon's aim goes wide – his bullet whizzing past me – as he rocks back from the impact of my bullet between his eyes.

I hear Mom's muffled scream as Gordon hits the floor, and behind me, Sam gasps.

I nod in agreement, thinking Sam is just as relieved as I am; because even though I wasn't scared of Gordon getting his shot off first, that was still too damn close.

I stare down at Gordon's body sprawled in the church aisle and think that I should probably be disturbed by how much pleasure I just got from killing another man.

But I'm not.

I couldn't give a fuck if I tried.

Because Gordon had this coming...for betraying us, for what he did to Mom and Cas and me...and for what he had planned to do to Sam.

I sigh and glance to the front of the sanctuary where Azazel continues to hold Mom in front of him – blocking any kind of clear shot – as he points his gun underneath Mom's jaw and backs down the church's aisle, approaching the altar with Dad steadily advancing toward him.

Although I can't hear their words, Dad and Azazel are saying something to each other, and Mom is wide-eyed as she continues to look past me.

Azazel's arm is still wrapped around Mom's shoulders and over her mouth, and both her hands are gripping his arm; supporting herself as she's dragged backwards down the aisle; her gaze suddenly, _desperately_ focusing on me and then on Dad.

Dad's gun is raised, his head tilted like he does when he's 100% focused; and I wonder if Azazel knows how close he is to joining Gordon in hell.

The thought makes me ridiculously happy...like beer and anime.

My mouth twitches in a smile, and I'm about to turn back to Sam when I see it – a renewed expression of absolute horror cross Mom's face as she looks past me again.

And even before I turn around to look, I know I'm too late.

In the next second, something icy hot slices across my left side, and I fall back, hearing Mom scream as I do; because apparently she saw.

"Shit!" I hiss, lying beside Gordon in the aisle and realizing I'm hit.

_I'm fucking hit. _

I clench my jaw – because being shot hurts and burns just as much as I remember – and hear Dad yell my name.

I raise my arm, surprised by how much effort that takes, and give him the sign that I'm okay; hit, in pain, and _pissed..._but okay.

"Dean!" Dad yells again.

And that's when I realize that Dad hasn't looked back to check on me; that he's keeping Azazel in his sights.

"Yeah," is all I respond, but I know that's enough; that Dad will know I'm okay.

I just hope Sam is okay, too.

Because as I'm quickly coming down from the high caused by killing Gordon and returning to the reality of this fucked-up situation, I've suddenly realized my little brother has been strangely quiet; hasn't said a word since he yelled my name in warning a few seconds ago in response to Gordon.

A wave of panic washes over me at the realization; at the memory of Gordon's wide shot, Mom's scream, and Sam's gasp; of me assuming Mom and Sam were just reacting to me killing Gordon...when maybe they were both reacting to Sam _being fucking shot_.

The thought – _the very real possibility_ – is paralyzing.

My heart slams in my chest, and I feel my increased blood pressure causing my side to bleed even more freely than before.

But I don't care.

Only one thing – _one person_ – matters.

And I should've been paying better attention to him.

"Sam..." I call, though not as loudly as I wanted.

Still...if Sam was able, he would have heard me; would've answered.

But there's no answer.

I swallow, feeling so panicked I can barely breathe.

"Sam..." I call again, trying to sit up; only to fall back when blinding pain ignites in my side.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Shit..." I hiss and force my eyes open; breathing deeply and willing myself to get a grip so I can try again.

But before I can do anything, boot-clad feet suddenly appear within inches from my face.

I startle and then strain to sit up; to see which asshole _fucking shot me_.

But the guy – one of the three nameless gunmen – squats to my level, looking down at me with what seems to be genuine concern and remorse.

"I'm sorry," he tells me and actually puts his hand on my shoulder. "I only do what Azazel tells me."

And I wonder if he thinks that explanation somehow excuses what he's done; somehow saves him from me taking him out the same way I did Gordon.

Because if he does think that, he's wrong – _dead wrong_.

As soon as I get my hands back on my gun...

I quickly glance around the immediate area, wondering where the hell my gun is; how far it went when I fell and lost my grip.

The guy continues to stare at me and sighs. "Listen...just stay down."

And for whatever reason, those last three words seem to echo.

In fact, when he says them, it's like he has some kind of power over me; because although I still _want_ to sit up, to find Sam...I literally can't.

_Just stay down._

The guy nods – he knows what he's doing – and then stands, moving down the aisle toward the church's altar, where I last saw Mom and Dad and Azazel.

"Fuck!" I growl from overwhelming pain and frustration and from feeling so fucking useless.

I squirm on the floor despite the agony in my injured side; still unable to sit up but trying desperately to get a better angle to see Sam; my view blocked by all the high-backed pews.

I feel blood freely flowing from my wound, saturating my shirt and the waist of my jeans as I struggle forward; green carpet soft under my hands as I crawl toward the church's doors, to where I last saw Sam.

Hoping, _praying_ that Sam is not down; that Sam is not shot.

Behind me, I hear Mom's muffled cries, and when I turn to look over my shoulder – grunting from the white hot pain the twisted movement causes to flare in my left side – I see that the same dickhead who shot me is now approaching Dad.

"Stay still," he orders Dad.

And those two words seem to have the same effect on Dad as "just stay down" had on me; it's like Dad literally can't move even though he obviously wants to.

What the fuck?

What kind of new-age, hippie mind control mojo shit is this?

In the next instant, the guy is within inches of Dad; easily unarming him and then cracking the butt of his own gun across Dad's temple.

Dad drops, and Mom finally snatches her face away from Azazel's hand and screams Dad's name; once again struggling in Azazel's grasp as he continues to hold her against himself; her back against his chest.

Azazel smiles. "Well done, Andy."

Andy nods his appreciation of the praise and then leans down to hit Dad with his gun twice more..._hard_.

Mom makes a guttural sound of rage while reaching behind herself, clawing at Azazel's face.

"Easy, wildcat," Azazel chuckles – holding Mom at arm's length – and then glances at Andy.

Andy nods again, seeming to understand the silent order, and steps forward, taking Mom from Azazel.

Mom glares as Andy approaches and strikes out at him, too; but stops as soon as Andy tells her to...just one word spoken from his lips – _stop_ – and that's that.

Mom is motionless, whether she wants to be or not.

"That's better," Azazel praises as Mom quiets in Andy's grasp, obviously still wanting to kick their asses but unable to.

And seriously..._what the fuck is going on?_

Azazel smiles, checks his gun, and then turns his attention toward the church's doors.

"Okay, Sam..." he calls, walking up the aisle. "Your turn."

And although my heart is about to beat out of my chest, I remain absolutely still on the floor, waiting for Azazel to walk past me.

It doesn't take long.

As soon as I see his shadow loom over me, I prepare to grab his ankle, and he goes down.

"I don't fucking think so," I growl at Azazel in response to his threat to my brother; still uncertain what they've already done to Sam – _because I still can't fucking see him_ – but determined not to let anything else happen to the kid.

Azazel chuckles, totally unfazed by finding himself face down on the floor, and looks over his shoulder at me.

I glare back, keeping my face neutral even as pain radiates throughout my entire body.

Grabbing his gun, Azazel pushes to his feet and stares down at me; his gaze flickering to my hand now covering my left side as blood seeps through my fingers.

"Nice try, Dean," he praises and then shakes his head, clearly pleased with himself and the situation. "But you're too late. You couldn't save yourself or your dad. You won't save your mom. And you sure as hell won't save Sam."

Azazel barely finishes speaking before his boot lands hard in my wounded side, flipping me over to land on my back.

My breath is instantly gone; stolen away by the _worst fucking pain_ I've ever felt in my life.

"No!" Mom yells hysterically from the front of the sanctuary, and I wonder what she's seeing behind me; what they're doing to my brother...or probably more accurately, what they're _about_ to do.

Mom calls my name, then Sam's before Andy covers her mouth, telling her to be quiet...which instantly shuts her up.

Azazel chuckles, and I'm vaguely aware of him turning away; turning back toward the church's doors, back to where I know Sam is.

And as it has so many other times throughout my life, my responsibility to Sam – to protect him and keep him safe no matter what – rallies strength I didn't even know I had.

Because before I know it, my breath is back and I'm slowly rolling over, preparing to crawl toward the church's doors.

"What the fuck happened?" Azazel demands as he approaches Jake and that other guy, sounding as pissed as I feel.

No one answers.

I continue to crawl, unnoticed; wishing I could find my gun – _hell, anybody's gun_ – scattered between one of these pews...but so far, nothing.

"What the fuck happened?" Azazel repeats, overly enunciating each word.

Jake clears his throat. "The Winchesters – "

"Shut the fuck up, Jake," Azazel snaps, clearly not interested in hearing the excuse of us.

I smile faintly; because as long as I can stay conscious, _this _Winchester ain't done yet.

Azazel snorts. "Un...fucking...believable," he comments, and I can picture him shaking his head disgustedly. "Phase One of my plan goes to absolute shit because you dumbasses let a couple of Feds get the jump on you, and now we end up with this fucking mess!"

And while I agree that we're all in a fucking mess, I feel a margin of satisfaction that Azazel's plan – at least "Phase One" of it – did not go as he wanted; that we managed to wreak our own havoc in only a few short minutes.

Gordon dead...that guy Dad shot also dead.

That leaves Azazel...Jake...Andy...and whoever that other guy is.

I continue to crawl forward – _almost there_ – and wonder how the hell we're going to take out four more armed men; especially since it's less "we" and more "me" right now.

"Well..." Azazel sighs, his tone a little lighter, and I vaguely wonder if he's bipolar; his drastic mood swings would certainly support that theory.

"Well...what?" an unfamiliar voice asks hesitantly, and I know it must be the pasty, odd-looking kid; that third nameless gunman.

"What's done is done," Azazel comments philosophically. "Gordon was an arrogant asshole, and I didn't even know that other guy's name."

"Scott," Jake supplies, naming the guy Dad shot as though anybody cares.

"Whatever," Azazel dismisses.

There's silence.

"Max..." Azazel calls, and since I haven't heard that name yet, I'm assuming he's talking to that pasty kid. "Go up front with Andy and Momma Winchester, just in case Papa Winchester wakes up before he's supposed to."

"Yes, sir," Max responds.

And as soon as I hear him move, I stop crawling; lying motionless on the floor.

Totally oblivious – not realizing that I'm now closer to the back of the sanctuary than I was when Azazel kicked me a few minutes ago – Max steps over me and continues down the aisle.

What a dumbass.

"Get him up," is the next thing I hear Azazel say, and I know he's talking to Jake about Sam.

I swallow and lift myself back up as I continue to crawl forward, not allowing myself to think about the implications of Azazel's order; that Sam is down, that Sam is probably shot, that Sam could be dead.

But then I hear Sam grunt, followed by sounds of sluggish, uncoordinated movement that would imply that maybe the kid is getting up by himself; too slow for my liking and obviously in pain, judging by the hitches in his breathing – _but by himself_.

I'm more than halfway up the aisle by now; fully aware of the blood running down my side, down my leg, and leaving a trail on the carpet...but I smile.

Because _that's my boy. _

There's more silence.

"Well, well...look at you," Azazel praises and then chuckles. "I always knew you were stronger than you looked, Sammy."

"It's 'Sam'," my little brother corrects; his voice shaking from a combination of anger, pain, and shock.

"Fine," Azazel concedes. "Sam..." He pauses. "Do you know what happens next?"

Sam doesn't answer.

I keep crawling, within inches away now.

"I think you do," Azazel states confidently, still talking about Sam knowing what's going to happen next; like Sam knows the future.

...which is complete bullshit and just further proof that Azazel _is fucking crazy_.

Sam says nothing but inhales a shuddering breath – almost choking when he swallows in the middle of it – and I wonder how badly he's injured; if my little brother isn't talking because he doesn't want to...or because he can't; because his lungs are filling up with blood or something equally horrifying.

"You've seen what happens next," Azazel muses, sounding strangely proud and excited. "You've seen it more than once. You just aren't quite sure _how_ it happens."

And the way he says that makes my stomach twist, makes me instantly worried about how _what_ happens...

There's more silence as I finally, _finally_ reach my goal; as I'm able to finally see Azazel and Jake and Sam standing in front of the church's double doors even as I'm still partially hidden behind one of the rear pews.

My eyes immediately go to Sam, still surprised – but proud as hell – that he's conscious; that he's obviously been wounded and is a little shocky, but is on his feet under his own power.

I silently sigh my momentary – yet overwhelming – relief at seeing my brother alive and then immediately give Sam a once-over; seeing a dark stain on the shoulder of his brown coat and knowing it's blood; knowing the kid has indeed been shot, most likely by Gordon's rogue bullet.

The visual confirmation causes a fresh wave of panic to wash over me, especially since Sam is barely on his feet; is only still standing because he's too damn stubborn – _too damn Winchester_ – to show weakness.

I shake my head, proud but worried.

If there's any comfort in all of this, it's that Sam is shot in his shoulder, and shoulder wounds are usually not that bad. It sucks that he's shot on his right side – his dominant side – but not by a bullet that was even intended for him; so that means maybe this just looks worse than it actually is. Maybe once we're all safe and at the hospital, the wound won't be bad at all.

But still..._Sam is shot._

And he was shot on my watch; or rather, while I was _not _watching; while my back was turned.

And that's inexcusable.

I shake my head, freshly pissed with myself for my negligence and more determined than ever to get myself and my family out of this church alive.

Azazel shifts from one foot to the other, still staring at Sam. "Want to know how it happens?" he asks my brother.

And I glance at the gun still gripped in Azazel's hand, hanging loosely by his side; immensely comforted by the fact that he's not aiming it at Sam while asking that question.

But still...this routine is getting old, and I wonder how long Azazel is going to harp on this "what happens next" topic; how long he's going to talk about it and freak us out about it until he _just shows us_.

"However you think it's going to happen...you're wrong," Azazel patiently explains to Sam and then glances at Jake.

Jake nods once as he continues to stand behind my brother; a silent conversation passing between him and Azazel.

An uneasy feeling begins to gnaw within me, and I clench my jaw against it – and against the burning, excruciating ache in my injured side – while glancing around myself...because I'm _so fucking desperate_ for a gun right now.

But I see nothing.

I shake my head.

Figures that I've spent my entire life surrounded by weapons, and now when I need one the absolute most...there's none to be found.

"Are you listening, Sam?" Azazel asks, tilting his head.

And I see why he would ask that – because Sam is looking about as crappy as I feel; pale and sweaty and sluggishly blinking even as his legs are visibly shaking.

Azazel frowns. "Sam..."

Sam's only response is to wince and sway on his feet.

And from my angle on the floor behind this pew, I can't tell if it's from the pain and dizziness of Sam's throbbing head, courtesy of the migraines...or from the agony of being shot and from the lightheadedness of blood loss, both courtesy of Gordon's bullet.

Either way, I don't like it.

Azazel glances at Jake again before looking back at Sam, and Jake instantly steps forward and grasps Sam's injured arm roughly; presumably responding to an order to keep Sam steady and on his feet.

Sam hisses in pain and scowls, weakly trying to pull away.

Jake's expression hardens just as his grip noticeably tightens.

Sam swallows and reluctantly stills, holding Jake's gaze defiantly.

Azazel chuckles. "I like your spunk, Sam. Always have..."

Sam looks back at Azazel.

Azazel sighs. "Where were we?" he asks and then pauses. "Ah, yes...when it happens..."

Azazel nods to himself and then he starts explaining to Sam again, still talking about whatever is happening next.

"When it happens, Sam...you won't even see it coming. Will he, Jake?"

My attention flickers to Jake as Jake smiles, and I can see Jake's arm – the one not holding onto Sam – moving behind my brother; Jake's elbow moving up like he's lifting something.

I narrow my eyes, immediately suspicious and scared as hell.

I try to push up, but my arms won't support my weight; _just stay down_ a whispery, unwelcomed echo in my head.

Sam squints, looking confused and exhausted and not-quite-with-it.

Azazel smiles and then glances over his shoulder, looking straight at me like he's known I was there all this time; like part of this "show" was for me.

I watch as Sam clumsily tracks Azazel's gaze, and I can tell from the way my brother slightly startles when he sees me that the kid didn't realize I was even here.

...which means Sam is in worse shape than I thought.

Maybe "just a shoulder wound" isn't just a shoulder wound after all.

_Shit._

"Dean..." Azazel calls, attracting my attention.

I look at him.

Azazel winks.

And then, just like that...it happens.

My only warning is Jake's arm moving swiftly back and then thrusting forward just as quickly.

And even before Sam gasps, even before his eyes squeeze shut in reaction to indescribable pain, even before he goes rigid and then alarmingly limp...I know.

Jake just _fucking stabbed_ my brother in the back.

"Sam!" I yell, frantically crawling forward, as if I think I'll catch Sam when he falls; because Sam is obviously going down.

But before he can, Sam slams back into the door as if somebody has picked him up, thrown him against it, and is momentarily holding him there.

Sam gasps again on impact and then coughs, seeming to choke on the sharp breath.

...that is, until I realize Sam's lips are splattered with flecks of red; that Sam isn't choking on air.

He's choking on _his own fucking blood_.

Just like Azazel warned Dad earlier.

"No!" I scream, refusing to believe the implications of what I'm seeing; because as signs go...this is _really fucking bad_. "Sammy!"

Sam weakly moves his head and coughs again. "D'n..."

And my heart stutters to a fleeting stop at the expression on Sam's face as he responds to my voice; as he looks in my direction, as his eyes try to find me; unfocused and vacant...as if in that fraction of a second, Sam's already gone...just that quick.

"No!" I scream again, because this is not happening.

_This is not fucking happening.  
><em>

But it is.

In the next instant, Sam slides slowly down to sit on the floor, leaving a streak of red to mark his trail down the right church door before slumping completely over on his side.

I stare at Sam as he now lies motionless on the floor; feeling too stunned to move.

"Guess you win," Azazel tells Jake.

"Guess so," Jake agrees, sounding oddly detached as he wipes the bloody blade against his sleeve.

I blink out of my daze and again start crawling across the floor toward Sam. "Sammy!"

Azazel turns toward me and shakes his head, as though he's dealing with a stupid child. "I've already told you, Dean. You can't save him."

"Like hell I won't!" I growl, ignoring the tearing pain in my side as I continue to drag myself closer to Sam.

Azazel chuckles and takes a step toward me. "You won't," he tells me again.

And those words – coupled with the toe of Azazel's boot coming toward my face – is the last thing I remember before the world goes dark.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_

_**I considered splitting this chapter since it's over 8,000 words...but I just couldn't! Hope you enjoyed, and I hope to start chapter 10 over the weekend. **_


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